


A Medium, Dear

by HoltzmannForDays



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: American Horror Story - Freeform, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, Military Background, Minor Violence, Possession, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoltzmannForDays/pseuds/HoltzmannForDays
Summary: You're a USN Operations Specialist who's home in LA on leave after a work accident that kills almost your entire fleet. After you're plagued by the hauntings of the spirits of those who died, you call your old friend Constance Langdon for help. She refers you to pre-fame Billie Dean Howard and the rest is history. Can she teach you how to ban your ghosts? Or, more importantly, can she teach you how to live with yourself? Bad summary - read the story.
Relationships: Billie Dean Howard/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	A Medium, Dear

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one! I am shipping off to a new location next week and wanted to publish before I leave. Once I settle in I'll get started on part two. Criticism and comments are welcomed and encouraged! Especially if you have any ideas for part two. Thank you for reading!

### Day One

Through the small peephole of your apartment door you could make out curls of light blonde hair. The color was similar to that of Constance’s but not comparable by any other means. Constance’s was short and dull with age and cigarette smoke. This woman’s hair was long and soft and light. And she was short enough to not be able to see her face.

You open the door inward with subtle hesitation until before you stood 5’6” of everything you weren’t. She wore tasteful, but obvious, makeup. Bright red lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Her eyelashes were long and curled and her eyebrows were dark and shaped perfectly. She wore a subtle blush and classy floral perfume. Her blouse was pearly white and satin. Her nails were long and acrylic and light pink and her skirt was a light blue tweed, ending right before her knees. Her hair had body and seemed to float ethereally atop her head, curling perfectly around her shoulders. Certainly this was the elusive woman Constance had told you about. Her eyes were chestnut brown and deep in depth at first glance. She had a mole that sat right in the corner of her plump red lips, accentuated by her slight smirk. 

It took you only two seconds to study her, but it didn’t go unnoticed if the glint in her eyes were anything to go by. 

“You must be Ms. Howard,” you stuck out your hand in greeting. 

Her hand was warm and soft when she took yours in her grasp. You knew yours were cold; they always were. 

She shook firmly, “Yours truly,” she smiled. 

“Please,” you respond and step back to allow her inside. 

It never ceased to make your pulse increase when a beautiful woman was in your place of rest, but you pushed it down with a sigh and shut your door. 

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Howard.” 

She smiled kindly and winked, “It’s what I do sweetheart. And do call me Billie Dean.” 

You nodded slightly, “May I get you something to drink?”

_____________

“Tell me, Y/N. What started this? Constance told me your story, but I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

Billie Dean sat cross-legged on your brown leather couch as you handed her a steaming mug of green tea. Her fingers received the beverage gracefully as her nails brushed slightly against your skin. 

You sat beside her and mirrored her crossed legs, setting your hands in your lap. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” she placated at your hesitance. 

“I don’t mind,” you lied. Of course you minded. But you didn’t have much of a choice. 

Billie Dean simply nodded in response and waited patiently. 

You’d give her the bare minimum, you decide. So you say as much as you can manage without going into detail. 

For context you give her your job description, and all that entails. USN Operations Specialist. How you advise on shipboard warfare operations and navigation; maintain Combat Information Center (CIC)/Combat Direction Center (CDC) displays and provide strategic plotting for warfare areas, weapons control and navigation; operate surveillance radars, identification equipment, communications equipment, and associated Command and Control equipment; interpret and evaluate radar presentations and tactical situations and make recommendations to senior leadership; apply current procedures and doctrine to CIC/CDC operations as specified by Joint/Allied/U.S. You could tell to some degree this information was going over her head, but Billie Dean nodded occasionally and gave no indication of such. You appreciated her lack of questioning. 

You tell her about your most recent operation. Stating simply that a misjudgment on your behalf led to the deaths of four members of your fleet and that though you were not blamed, it was your fault. That your commanding officer gave you mandatory leave for a two month period until you were ready to return. After a week home alone is when you were visited by your first spirit, PO Johnson. 

Billie Dean was quiet for a moment, expecting more from you. When she realized that was all you were willing to give, she sighed and smiled kindly. 

“How about we get started then?”

______

Billie Dean shook her head after a long silent pause. She stood in your living room with her palms up and open, offering herself as a medium to any spirits present. You couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that sat heavy in your chest. 

Billie Dean must have sensed your worry.

“Don’t do that dear. It’s not abnormal for spirits to be stubborn.” 

You sigh and turn to walk out to your terrace that overlooked the city. You slide open the glass door and leave open should Billie Dean wish to join you. You grab the pack of Marlboro Reds that are sitting on top of the metal railing and pull out a cigarette, putting it between your lips. Behind you, you hear the sound of heels clicking in your direction. Soon there’s an open flame before your mouth lighting your cigarette for you. You cup your hands around the lighter to block the wind and your fingers brush over hers. You look up to find her already staring at you. Her eyes dark brown and alluring; pulling you in with their kindness and warmth. She drops the lighter to light her own cigarette, turning herself to face the cityscape. The sun was starting to set, shining a golden hue over downtown Los Angeles. 

“You think I’m seeing things,” you say as you blow out a puff of grey smoke, purposely not making eye contact with her. 

Billie Dean chuckled in a deep tone that stirred your insides just right. 

“You are seeing things, darling.” 

Her voice was sultry and smooth with a gravelly edge from the smoke. You didn’t have to look to know she was smirking.

“That’s not what I mean,” you say as you take a drag. 

Your muscles flex and tighten subconsciously when Billie Dean places her hand on yours. It’s warm and soft. There are surprisingly some light calluses on her palm that you make a mental note to ask about later. Her thumb rubs back and forth across your skin. 

“I don’t think you’re a shell shocked sailor,” she says and you bring your gaze finally to her eyes to find them sparkling with sympathy. 

“I used to be like you. Until I was 25. When out of the blue my cleaning lady shows up as I'm brushing my teeth. Except she's got no toilet brush and rubber gloves, she's naked and bloody. Her husband murdered her with an ice pick. You think I wanted a bloody Mexican ghost in my bathroom? All I wanted was to improve my tennis game and unseat Charlotte Whitney as president of my book club. I was chosen. And when you're chosen, you either get with the program or you go crazy.” 

That must be where the callouses came from. 

You take her hand and squeeze it once before releasing it completely to put out your cigarette butt. Then after a breath, you look at her again. 

“I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.” 

“That wasn’t my point,” She smiled kindly and took another drag from her cigarette. “There are ghosts in your home. Felt it the moment I walked in,” she paused to blow out a puff of smoke. “I've seen many in my day. Just not the way you think. A ghost can be a lot of things. A memory, a daydream, a secret. Grief, anger, guilt. But, in my experience, most times they're just what we want to see. Most times, a ghost is just a wish.”

What the hell were you supposed to say to that? 

Billie Dean’s eyes held pain, that much was obvious. But what could you possibly say to her. So you looked out to the bustling city before you. 

Billie Dean didn’t expect a response and simply put out her cigarette before brushing a hand over your tense shoulder and saying, “C’mon, it’s getting dark.” 

You follow her back inside before closing the glass door behind you. 

___________

### Week Two 

It’d been a week altogether since Billie Dean Howard had first walked into your apartment smelling like Benson & Hedges and something Dior. In her heels she was nearly as tall as you were, but her presence alone was enough to make the height difference insignificant. 

You’ve spent most evenings in each other’s company since then. She would show up roughly around the same time every day or so. Sometimes she would be a few hours late, apologizing in earnest over clients who just wouldn’t let her leave. You always brush it off and pretend like you weren’t worrying about her every moment she wasn’t there. She only has a landline so really you have no modern way of communicating with each other properly, much to your chagrin. You offer to teach her how to use a cellular phone once but she rebuffs you, claiming she wishes to hold off for as long as she can before jumping on the phone crazed bandwagon of this “new generation”. Some days she doesn’t come at all. It isn’t often, but when it happens you can’t properly eat; your stomach in anxious knots. She always has a reason. More often than not it’s when a spirit drains her so completely it requires a full day of uninterrupted sleep to recover. Her eyes are always guilty, and your eyes are always welcoming and reassuring. You never blame her or keep expectations of her and you can tell she appreciates it greatly. 

Billie Dean flat out refused your offer of payment for her time. Whenever you bring up the topic she sticks a pointed finger at you and you wouldn’t dare defy that notion. So, until you can figure out a way to wire money into her bank account without her knowing, you cook for her. Every night she comes over you prepare dinner and make sure to have her favorite wine opened and breathing. You don’t drink yourself, a fact she notices but doesn’t point out. So she accepts it in grace and always pours herself a glass so you don’t have to. She enjoys your cooking, always saying so kindly, and you just enjoy cooking for someone other than yourself. 

Tonight is no different than the rest. At around 6 pm Billie Dean had knocked on your door. After settling in she does the same cleansing ritual she does every time she enters your apartment. Then the two of you sat in silence on your couch with joined hands for twenty minutes, opening yourselves to any contact should a spirit wish to present itself in some form. Usually it remained silent for the duration. Billie Dean would always place a warm manicured hand on your arm and assure you that she senses them here, and that just because they don’t wish to make themselves known at this time does not mean they’re not real. You smile gratefully and thank her, then excuse yourself to get started on dinner. 

Your kitchen isn’t large but it is spacious and clean with a wooden island and white subway tile backsplash. Your counters were black granite and sleek. Billie Dean silently pours herself a glass of wine and sits at the island while you pull groceries from the refrigerator. 

“Pasta okay tonight?”

When there was no response you turn around to see wide eyes and comically high raised eyebrows.

“I wasn’t aware carbs were in your culinary repertoire.”

You chuckle heartily at this and smile, albeit a bit lackluster. “It’s been a long day,” you say. 

You pour a bag of noodles into the pot of boiling water and begin to mince the ingredients for your homemade sauce. 

“Would that scary stack of files have anything to do with it?” She asks, and when you look back see her pointing to said stack of blue government files on your bed. You’d forgotten to shut the door all the way it seems. 

“You’re observant,” you smirk. You hear her take a sip of wine and set the glass back down.

“All us cheap thrill mediums are, darling,” she replies darkly though in humor. And while she kids you know Billie Dean has to fight daily to be taken seriously let alone respected in her industry.

“You’re no cheap thrill, Miss. Howard,” you say while stirring the Alfredo sauce.

“I do wish you’d stop calling me that,” she says absentmindedly. Then, “Can I put on a record?” 

You nod in confirmation and she glides across the room to your turntable, thumbing through your extensive collection. 

“Do you have anything in here from the last thirty years?” She calls over, dreamily reading all of the labels. 

“No,” you say simply. 

She laughs, “A woman after my own heart.” 

You ignore the way your chest aches at the comment. 

After a few moments you hear the soft introductory notes of _Walkin’ After Midnight_ by Patsy Cline fill your apartment and you smile widely at her choice. Because of course. 

After three more songs play you finish the Fettuccine Alfredo and plate the pasta for the both of you. She thanks you and you sit next to her on your island. Usually you both sit at your small dining table, but tonight felt different in some way you couldn’t quite place. 

“This is very good. Thank you,” she says with an eager smile.

“Would you say that even if it wasn’t?” You ask in spite of yourself. 

“I’m not afraid to say ‘this is fucking disgusting’ if that’s what you mean.” 

You both erupt in laughter at her remark. You cover your mouth with your hand to keep some decorum. She notices. 

“Good to know,” you say finally and the two of you finish your meal in companionable silence. 

You settle on your couch afterward at about 8 pm. At this time you usually allow Billie Dean to pick out an old film that “you just must see” and watch television until she grows tired and calls it a night before driving home. You weren’t sure when this became less about getting rid of your ghosts and more about getting more time with Billie Dean. And if you were to let yourself think really about it, you might come to the conclusion that they’re synonymous. 

Your and Billie Dean’s legs stretch out onto the coffee table as you recline into the leather couch. The end credits of the first movie roll and your sides press together closely as she selects the next one. Some black and white classic popular when she was a young child. You momentarily consider your age difference before her hand comes to rest on your thigh innocently. If she could hear your quick intake of breath she doesn’t mention it. She rubs her thumb across the fabric of your jeans gently and it soothes you considerably. Then she’s looking at you. 

“Are you alright?” She asks. The tips of her acrylic nails scratch lightly down your leg in a calming gesture. 

“I don’t mean in general,” she clarifies, “Because I know the answer to that. I just mean right now.” 

You bring your eyes from her hand on your leg to her, and meet her soft gaze.

“Right now?” You ask somewhat lamely. 

Billie Dean nods her head patiently. 

You close your eyes for just a moment and smile to yourself. 

“I’m doin’ real good right now I reckon,” you say. 

Billie Dean grins widely, almost wide enough to see her teeth. 

“Good,” she says. 

“What about you?” You ask, gently placing your hand over hers on your leg.

“Your hand is freezing,” she says instead with a dramatic shiver. 

“Oh, sorry,” you say and start to retract your hand before she grabs it in her own securely.

“No, that’s alright. I’ll keep it warm,” she smirks. You simply smile in response.

You go back to watching the movie; the plot? No idea. How could you pay attention when your hand is being held safely by Billie Dean’s. You couldn’t. So the rest of the night proceeds as so. You and Billie Dean pretending to watch the film before you when really all that was on your minds was the growing warmth between you. 

____________

### Day Nine 

You were admittedly almost asleep when Billie Dean walked into your apartment. It wasn’t that late, only 8 pm, but the older you got the earlier you went to bed and today’s skies had been gloomy and grey. Come to think of it, LA had been uncharacteristically cold and dreary lately. But you weren’t complaining. You were reclined on your couch with your feet propped up on your coffee table, forgotten novel open on your stomach. 

The first thing you notice is the way Billie Dean is rubbing her temples and sighing. She haphazardly tossed her purse on your kitchen island and slipped her heels off, tucking them away with the rest of your shoes by the door. 

“Can we skip the ghosts for now and go straight to the drinking?” She asks and if it were earlier in the day you’d probably raise your eyebrows and make some sarcastic comment. But instead you pad into the kitchen to pull her pale blue blazer off her shoulders and hang it on the coat rack, leaving her in a cream silk button up blouse. 

She watches you as you hang her blazer and softens her gaze when you turn back her way. 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” 

You smirk and pull the bottle of wine you keep for her from the cupboard. Your t-shirt rides up from the stretch and reveals a generous amount of pale white skin. Billie Dean blushes slightly and ducks her head, but succumbs eventually to the temptation and stares at your toned stomach, freckles spread out over your skin like a cruel invitation. You grab the bottle and roll back on your heels to set it on the counter. You look over at Billie Dean and she turns her head quickly to stare at your fruit bowl and you chuckle under her breath. For a woman that exudes as much charm and confidence as Billie Dean, you didn’t think she’d try to hide her blatant staring. 

You pour her a generous glass and place it in her hand, making sure to brush her skin with your fingers.

“Tough client?” You ask as you lean back against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest. Your biceps flex involuntarily at the action and Billie Dean wets her pink lips with a subtle swipe of her tongue. 

“You could say that,” she mumbles and takes a long sip of her wine. When she sets the glass down again she winces at what you assume is an oncoming headache. “People think that just because they don’t hear what they want to hear, I’m some fraud out for their money. That’s the third client this month to stiff me on the bill.” 

You hum and push your tongue against your cheek in thought. She watched you turn your options over and over in your head and knows what you’re going to say before you even open your mouth. 

“Offer to pay me again and I’m throwing hands,” she threatens. You scoff and roll your eyes at her reluctance to let you compensate her for her time. It bothers you that you don’t pay her. Because then this thing between you can’t be defined simply as you being her client. It makes things complicated. Blurry. Grey. 

“I was going to offer you my legal counsel. I am licensed, you know.” You say with a raised brow. Billie Dean knew you were a lawyer, though it wasn’t your day job. You’d briefly mentioned your past practicing law but didn’t go into it too far, not one to talk about yourself for long. You were more than happy to give her advice on how to handle unruly clients or, if it came to it, represent her. You don’t allow yourself to think about how big a conflict of interest that would certainly be. 

“I might take you up on that sometime,” she said as she took another sip. Most of her wine was gone at this point and she glanced at the bottle, as if to contemplate refilling her glass. She doesn’t, and resigned herself to lean against the counter next to you. Her right arm presses up against your left as she places her palms against the marble top behind her for support. Your muscles tense. 

“Do you have a client contract?” You ask, having never seen of hers one yourself. 

She nods in agreement, “Of course. But let’s not talk shop tonight, okay?” She places her hand on your bicep and squeezes slightly, heartbeat picking up at the firm muscle underneath her fingers. 

“Does your head hurt?” You ask. Billie Dean never missed an opportunity to hear you talk about, well anything really. But most especially something you were truly knowledgeable about. 

“Is it that obvious?” She asks, and if you didn’t know better you’d say she sounded annoyed. 

“Let me try something,” you say and she sets her wine glass down without question. 

“Okay,” she breathes and you move to stand in front of her, closer than before. 

You move your hands behind her head to apply a gentle pressure at the base of her skull with your pointer and middle finger of both hands. She releases a breath of relief and closes her eyes. 

“Tuck your chin for me,” you soothe in a soft voice. She does with a deep sigh. “Good,” you say. “Now look up at me.” 

Her eyes open and focus on yours. You hadn’t foreseen how this would steal your breath away but you couldn’t turn back now; plus you knew this method to work nearly every time. You add a firmer pressure to the base of her skull and move your fingers in a circular motion for a few moments before her eyes on yours became too much to bear. You hit a particularly sore spot, a knot under her skin, and she closes her eyes again with a deep groan. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t relieved. 

Without the threat of her gaze, you can study Billie Dean’s face freely. Her skin is darker than yours. She’s naturally tan in the way the sun hasn’t marred her, and her freckles are sparse but noticeable. Small, cute things. 

From where you stood, she looks so soft. Soft enough to hold; to kiss. All the sharp angles of Billie Dean Howard left behind in the doorway with her heels. You feel privileged to be the one to see her like this. 

After a few more minutes of applying the gentle pressure, Billie Dean exhales and drops her shoulders. 

“Thank you honey,” she says as she places a palm on your cheek. You drop your hands to your side. 

“Of course,” you say plainly. 

Her hand leaves your cheek and you instantly feel the loss except she then slips her fingers around the belt loops of your denim jeans and pulls you against her with a sudden tug. You lose your breath.

“Who knew you were so good with your hands,” she croons; her trademark smirk resting back on her plump lips once again. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you breathe. And honestly you were impressed by how well you were keeping it together. You worked perfectly well under pressure, but when a pretty woman is this close you tend to lose your level-headedness. 

“So I’ve noticed,” she says and dammit she’s good at this. You hum in agreement and move your hands to grip her waist. _Two can play at this game_ , you think. Her eyes glint at the challenge. 

Billie Dean moves her hands up to press against your taught abdomen and pulls you slightly closer by your shirt. She leans to whisper against your ear, “Let’s see about them ghosts then, hm?”

Thirty minutes later you’d situated yourselves on your couch, perched side by side. Billie Dean had smoked a cigarette on your terrace overlooking the city. She offered you a drag and then one cigarette turned to two shared ones. Now the air was still; the living room quiet. You loathe sitting in silence. With your thoughts, unburdened by stimulation and distraction. The scent of smoke hung between you, musky and far too intoxicating under the circumstances. 

“Ready?” She asks, amused by your straying inner monologues. You nod in agreement and stuck your palms out. Billie Dean places her hands on yours and squeezes once, reassuringly. She goes through the motions of offering the space to any spirits wishing to make contact and then you both wait. 

Ten minutes pass and you’re tired of all this waiting you do. You’d had enough gaslighting from your parents, you didn’t need your ghosts making you feel crazy as well. 

Then Billie Dean’s grip on your hands tighten and your head whips up to look at her. But she isn’t looking at you. She’s looking past her shoulder, next to her. Listening intently to something. Then she looks at you. 

“Petty Officer Smith is here,” she says with a smile and your heart drops. Petty Officer Smith had a wife and two kids about to graduate middle school when he died. You can’t imagine what he had to say to you. 

Billie Dean’s eyes soften and tears gather in her eyes. She squeezes your hands again. 

“He says he doesn’t blame you...” she trails off. You scoff and shake your head slightly in disagreement. She grabs your hands tighter to get your attention. 

“He says ‘you were always the best of us....you did the right thing’.” 

A tear escapes Billie Dean’s eyes and she wipes it away subtlety with her index finger. 

“I-“ 

You don’t know what to say to that. What does someone say to that? 

“No,” you start, “No, No. I-“ 

She squeezes your hand again and this time her grip is uncomfortably tight. 

“I’m losing him…” Her eyes are serious, “He says it’s not your fault. And to stop blaming yourself.” 

You shake your head and stand abruptly from the couch, severing your contact with Billie Dean. You turn your back to her and walk forward a few paces until you can rest your elbows against the cool stained wood of your island counter. You press the palms of your hands against your closed eyes and lean your weight into your elbows. You take measured breaths to calm. yourself. For the most part you’re able to regulate your heartbeat but still, you felt uneasy. Unsteady. Unsure. 

You don’t know how long you stood there for but suddenly there was a hand on your shoulder. You recognized them to be Billie Deans automatically because of the long nails that’s pressed against you soothingly. She rubs her hand up and down your back with a slight scratch of her nails and you find yourself being lulled into a stupor. You didn’t ask for this. To be in contact with...them. You’d much rather wallow in your own despair until the end of time, set in your convictions that what happened was your fault. You didn’t ask for this. 

You move away but Billie Dean wraps her arms around you and holds you against her front. You struggle, “I’m not leaving,” she says; chin on your shoulder. You sigh and drop your head and she hugs you closer. 

Billie Dean runs her right hand up and down your arm and when you pull away this time she doesn’t stop you. 

“I....” She looked up at you and you shook the fog away from your head. “You should go.” You say.

“I really don’t think that’s wise,” she settles and you feel a pant of guilt in your chest for making her feel out of place; unwanted. You want nothing more than for her to hold you as you fall asleep but you can’t afford indulgence right now. _Your Catholic is showing_ , you think snidely to yourself. 

“I’ll walk you to the door,” you say and place your hand on her lower back. 

You grab her blazer off the rack and when you turn around Billie Dean is standing before you with her arms crossed and an unimpressed look set on her features. 

You drop your gaze to her bare feet and sigh, “Billie-”

She settles you with a steely glare, “You shouldn’t be alone, especially now.” 

You shrug. “If you’re not going to let me pay you, you can’t expect me to keep you so late,” you defend lamely. 

Billie Dean rolls her eyes and leans forward to grab your biceps. Her skin is so soft, save for the old callouses left from years of holding a tennis racket. But even those had smoothed over with time and were now hardly noticeable. That’s how scars work, you think. Sometimes distant but never gone. Not completely. 

Billie Dean has a new look in her eyes now, different than a few moments ago. No longer combative or argumentative. Decisive, now. Determined. It was a glint in her eyes that made your stomach uneasy and, though you loathe to admit it, gave you a little tingle. 

“You're not used to people staying,” she says and it hits you more like a punch than a sentence. 

Again, you’re at a loss for words. You often are around her, you observe. Much to your chagrin. She steps even closer, her chest almost pressed against yours, and tightens her grip on your arms.

“I’m staying, Y/N,” she whispers with finality. You have nowhere else to look but her eyes. Chocolate brown and warm, like the first cup of coffee on a Sunday morning. Your chest grows heavy. 

This is why you’ve never been in a relationship before. When someone grows up abused, mentally and physically, their entire ‘foundation’ is built on doubt and falsehoods. You will always doubt whether or not someone _really_ loves you as you struggle to see your worth. You overread into little things that feel “off” and take them as signs that they’re unsatisfied with your relationship. Shutting down whenever you’re criticised because you flashback to past abuse. Filtering your ‘true self’ and only showing parts of you that you believe they'll accept because you feel you're not enough. Struggling to bring your guard down because you're scared to be vulnerable. 

Billie Dean brushes her thumb across your cheek and when it comes back wet you realized you’d let a tear escape. You scoff quietly at your own betrayal. 

“I’m not leaving,” she whispers and slips her arms around your waist, fingers splaying across your back. Without her heels on, Billie Dean’s mouth is level with your chin and she leans in to press a kiss to your pulse point. Then she nuzzles into the crook of your neck with her nose and settles her head on your collarbone; her breath coming out in little hot puffs against your cold pale skin. 

“Billie-”

“I’m not leaving.”

Her blazer falls from your hands onto the wooden flooring with a soft thud and neither of you say a word.

___________

### Day Thirteen

A few days later It’d been a long day for Billie Dean, you deduced. The way her smile was less flirtatious and more tired; her eyes duller but still kind. You figured if she wanted to talk about it she’d bring it up. 

“You got something stiffer than this tucked away somewhere?” 

You smile to yourself with your head in the refrigerator.

“No. But there’s a bar down the way.”

That’s all it takes to convince the medium and before you know it she’s grabbing your keys off the counter and dragging you toward the door. 

When you arrive at the bar the lighting is dim and the music is loud enough to muffle most conversation. Though, much to your agreement, it’s cleaner than the usual haunt and the bartenders are wearing uniform flannels rather than soiled T-shirts.

Billie Dean orders a Jameson and you order a ginger ale. She spares you a glance and you answer with a simple, “Drinking outside communion defiles the sacrament, Miss. Howard.” 

Billie Dean took her whiskey glass in her right hand and brought it up to her lips. Not quite touching. Teasing. Her fingers curled perfectly around the cup, condensation slowly dripping down her digits.

“Defile the sacrament with me then,” she said with a wink and a seductive smirk. 

You scoff then look away; not trusting yourself to not do something involuntarily embarrassing, and take a long drink of your ginger ale. 

“Suit yourself,” you hear vaguely from the medium beside you as she takes a short sip and crinkles her nose at the lick of heat that travels down her throat. 

Billie Dean, you decide, is dangerous. She draws you in with her kind eyes and mischievous smile until she makes you hers. Then, once she’s done, she’ll push you away. You know this because, well, you’re the same. But then she puts her hand on your thigh under the bar when someone you recognize asks why you’re back in town and Billie Dean, you decide, is worth it. She rubs her thumb across your jeans soothingly until the person is sated with your false story and leaves. You give her a grateful smile in thanks and she nods in reassurance. 

You motion for the bartender to pour her another Whiskey. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Miss. Howard...did you choose this profession? Or -“

“Did it choose me?” She completed. You nod in response. 

Billie Dean knocked back the Jameson’s and a subtle shiver ran down her spine from the kick. 

She cleared her throat and leveled you with a gaze. 

“Something tells me you already know the answer.”

You shrug your shoulders and look her in the eyes. 

She concedes and releases a small sigh. 

She tells you how when she turned seventeen she saw her first ghost. She’d gone to her physics class early to ask for an extension on her quantum mechanics paper. She had a conversation with her teacher, Mr. Brown, in which he’d agreed to give her an extra week. When the bell rang the door opened and a substitute teacher walked in, wondering what she was doing there. When she looked back Mr. Brown was gone. She learned later that day he’d died the night before. She wrote it off as not getting enough sleep until it happened three more times. When she tried to tell her mother, she tried to have her committed. So seventeen year old Billie Dean figured better safe than sane and decided to repress that day and all her thoughts about it for the foreseeable future. She went along with the story of teenage attention seeking until that day when you saw her housekeeper and it became something she could no longer rightfully ignore.

“That must weigh heavily on you,” you comment empathetically, eyes holding her gaze. It was clear she was leaving out most of the story. Telling you the bare minimum. But you didn’t mind. And you didn’t expect anything from her. 

“Sometimes,” she admits. And it’s the first time you feel you get a glimpse inside Billie Dean’s head. 

Then she straightens her back and you can tell she was done talking about herself. 

“Why did you want to join the Navy?” She asks as she takes another drink. 

You can’t help but smile at the harmless question. You wish you had a stiffer drink. 

“Join the Navy, see the world,” you say by way of explanation. 

“Bullshit,” she says. Her voice is husky and emboldened from her third glass of whiskey. 

Your eyes widen slightly as you were taken aback by her vulgarity. You should’ve expected as much coming from Billie Dean. But nevertheless you were a little surprised. 

“You could’ve done that without giving up your life,” she said, slightly slurred. The moment it comes out of her mouth you can see on her face she regrets it. Her lips hung slightly open, almost as if she surprised herself. 

If you were a normal person that would’ve offended you, you reckon. But you’re not. And she knows that. 

You sigh and look down at your carbonated water. What do you say to something like that. You choose to ignore it until a tentative hand rests lightly on your wrist. You look up and she’s closer than before. You can feel her breath on your cheeks and it warms your skin. 

“I didn’t mean that,” she says softly, “I’m sorry.” 

You give her a forgiving smile and say, “I know. It’s alright.” 

Billie Dean shakes her head once, “No it’s not. You’ve served our country and made sacrifices none of us will ever understand. I will never understand. Thank you.” 

She’s definitely buzzed, the words coming out of her mouth less smooth than usual. But you appreciate what she says. It means more coming from her. A fact you’re neglecting to assign relevance to. 

“We should head back,” you say instead, and wave down the bartender to settle the bill. 

After paying and finishing the rest of your ginger ale, Billie Dean wraps a gentle hand around your bicep and you walk together out to the street. 

A group of college girls in cocktail dresses that end far before their mid thighs come barreling down the sidewalk, arm in arm. They were clearly drunk and swaying side to side, laughing all the way. 

Billie Dean rolls her eyes and tugs you to the right into a dimly lit empty alleyway. The asphalt was damp from where rain had collected and never dried. 

“This isn’t a good idea, Miss.-“

“Call me “Miss.” again and see what happens, Miss. (L/N).” 

You smile at her loose form and decide maybe you should keep a bottle of whiskey in your kitchen for the next time she stops by. You like loose Billie Dean. Maybe you just like Billie Dean, you realize. 

You can’t look away from her dark brown eyes. “Okay, but-“ the air is knocked out of you without a moment’s notice and before you know it you’re on your knees on the ground. Not allowing yourself to get caught up in your confusion, you twist your head around to see a man in a black hoodie pointing a gun at Billie Dean. Your stomach drops and you fill with a sense of dread deeper than ever before.

Barely, you make out, “...and your pearls!”

Subconsciously Billie Dean’s hand drifts to brush over the pearl necklace sitting atop her chest. She looks down at you once and it’s enough to draw the man’s attention back to you. The gun too. 

“Get up!” He ordered. His hand holding the gun was shaky and nervous. By your guess, he’d never used one before. That wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. 

Slowly, you rise to your feet with your hands in the air. 

“Give me your wallet,” he shouts with an uneven tremble. You glance quickly to Billie Dean. She stays staring at you with blown pupils, hand still clutching her pearl necklace. You give her a look you hope conveys security and focus back on the man.

“I’m reaching for my wallet,” you say slowly, keeping one hand raised and visible. 

“Hurry up!” He grumbles and points the gun a little closer to your chest. You hear Billie Dean gasp at the movement but don’t look at her. 

Once you get a hold of your wallet, you bring it forward and purposely drop it right before he can grab it. 

“Damn it,” you curse and reach down to get it before sidestepping quickly and wrapping your hand around his wrist, using your other to knock the weapon from his hand. The outburst infuriated the man as he threw an undercut right into your stomach twice, then elbows your spine, dropping you to the ground. 

You hear Billie Dean scream your name, but grab the man’s leg to divert the attention back to you. You were hoping she would take this opportunity to run, but she seemed to be frozen in place. 

Laying on your back, the assailant lunged, kicking your rib cage again and again with his steel toed boots. The sharp pain made the air colder and crisper as you breathed it in. Instinctively you wanted to let him keep going until Billie Dean grew some sense and ran. But you had to fight to remember your training, and take control of the situation. 

On the next kick, you grab hold of his shin and hit it with the palm of your hand until his knee buckled. Quickly, you rise to move behind him as he falls to his knees and wraps your arms around his neck. Without thinking, you squeeze as hard as you can until his struggling stops and his body drops to the ground. Immediately you hover over him and bring your fingers to his neck to check his pulse. Weak, but present. You sigh in relief and get to your feet, turning to run to Billie Dean without thought. 

She stood still with wide eyes and stiff limbs. Clearly in shock. She doesn’t even fully register your presence until you place your cold hands on her face. 

“Miss. Howard?” You ask breathlessly. She blinks once and then grabs the neck of your coat and pulls you into her roughly. You allow her to and wrap your arms around her back tightly. Her grip around your waist makes it difficult to breath and compresses your bruised ribs uncomfortably, but you don’t say a word. 

“Hey are you guys okay? I called the police!” 

You disengage from the hug quickly and look to the source of the loud voice.

The boy was young, maybe 20 years old. He was well built with noticeably large muscles under his tight shirt. You felt confident he could defend himself should the assailant gain consciousness again so you grabbed Billie Dean’s hand, and rushed out of the alleyway. It was warm and damp with sweat under your own. She asked no questions and voiced no objections, simply following you like a loyal disciple trusting you knew your way. 

You mumbled a quick thanks to the guy as you passed him on the way to your car. In your mind you knew you were pulling a bit too hard as Billie Dean was struggling to keep up in her high heels, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. All that mattered to you then was getting her to safety. Where you were in control and she was protected. 

You fished into your jean pockets for the keys and pulled them out with haste, unlocking the car from a few feet away. All you could manage to hear was your heartbeat thumping in your ear and both of your combined heavy breaths. You held Billie Dean’s hand so tightly you could feel her rapid pulse through her palm. 

  
  


When you reached the grey pickup you threw open the passenger door and let go of Billie Dean only to guide her into her seat. You shut her door and jogged to the drivers side and climbed in. You hadn’t realized you’d done all of this in one breath until you locked the car when you choked in a deep breath. Billie Dean looked at you with concern etched in her delicate features. You reached over and buckled her seatbelt, then your own, then shifted the gear stick, started the engine, and peeled out onto the street.

Neither of you said a word. Billie Dean’s eyes were set on you as you drove ten over. You never blinked once as you kept your eyes on the rode for half a mile before pulling over into an empty church parking lot. The moment you killed the engine you looked over to Billie Dean and grabbed her hands. 

“Are you okay?” 

Her eyes were glazed over in shock but yours were not. They were serious and wide and leveling. She looked at you and blinked once. 

“Billie Dean?” You asked, squeezing her hands. It was the first time you’d addressed her by her first names.

She shook her head subtly and blinked twice. Her eyes cleared and her pupils dilated. She squeezed your hands back. 

“I’m okay. I’m okay.” 

You let go a relieved sigh uncaring if she had heard. Uncaring if it had given away your concern for her. 

You let go of her hands and brought them to her shoulders. Your left hand ran over her right collarbone and rubbed to skin there lightly. 

“Did he hurt you?” You scanned your eyes over every available inch of her skin. 

“No. No, Y/N.” She rested her left hand on top of yours that was on her shoulder. 

“Are you sure?” You asked. You brought your fingers down to rest on her skin above the low neck of her silk silver blouse. Her soft blonde curls rested on her shoulders and brushed against your hand. 

“Yes, Y/N. I’m okay.” 

The pickup truck had no center divider so she scooted over until her leg fully pressed up against yours. You glanced down to see the slit in her skirt strain to expose more of her thigh. Her skin was sun kissed with small freckles. You forced your gaze back up to her eyes.

“Honey, you’re shaking,” she said in a soft voice. It didn’t have its usual gravelly nature. And by the sound of it, she’d completely sobered up.

As you looked down to your hands again they were trembling as they lay on her chest. She picked them up and held them. 

Certainly she understood why you were reacting the way you were. After the things you had seen. The things you had done. The reason the two of you had met to begin with. Certainly she understood. And of course she did. 

“I was afraid for you,” you confessed. As silent and humble as you would to your priest. 

Billie Dean smiled and leaned in to brush her lips across your cheek in a kiss. She pulled back just slightly; close enough for you to do the thing you’d been contemplating for days. You didn’t look at her mouth. You knew if you did you’d find the plump pink lips you’d been staring at when you thought she wasn’t looking. You knew you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself. You weren’t going to let your resolve break any more than it had tonight. 

“I know. But I had you to protect me, didn’t I?” She massaged the skin under your jaw with her thumb in light circles. 

You took a deep breath and composed yourself. You’d allowed yourself a few minutes to feel and now you would go back to your natural state. You were trained to adapt this way. Not that you’d needed it.

“Are you certain you weren’t injured? I can take you to the hospital for an examination.”

Billie Dean shook her head vehemently at the thought of being put in a stale blue paper gown.

“Okay,” you say with a nod. You brought your hands down to rest on her upper arms. “May I examine you?” 

Billie Dean laughed and if you didn’t know better you’d say you saw a blush rise to her cheeks. 

“Could you at least take me out to dinner first?”

You smiled at her humor and moved out of her personal space so you could think clearer. 

“I’m certified in emergency medicine. You can see a doctor or you can see me, Billie Dean.”

You couldn’t tell in that moment but Billie Dean’s chest tightened at your domineering tone. 

She cleared her throat and moved back over to her seat to buckle herself in. 

“If you pull out a paper gown on me, I’m gone.” She said with a long finger pointed at you. Your eyes lingered on the blue acrylic nail on its end.

“Yes ma’am.” You said with a smug smile and started the truck’s engine. 

You shared a look in which you both were able to relax for the first time since the incident. She gave you a reassuring nod and you pulled out of the parking lot. 

————

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Next to Billie Dean on the cushion of your leather couch you dropped one of your military equipment duffel bags. From within it you pulled out a metal stethoscope.

“Please sit, Ms. Howard.” You instructed as you hung it around your neck. 

“I think I liked you better when we were on a first name basis,” she said as she sat down, adjusting her skirt appropriately.

You sat down next to her and pulled the stethoscope from your neck.

“Forgive me. I wasn’t myself.”

You put the instrument into your ears and tested it with a tap. 

“I think you were,” she said. Testing the waters. 

You ignored the truthful statement and moved a little closer. 

“Are you ready?” 

She conceded and nodded. You brought the stethoscope to her chest, just below her collarbone. 

“Can you breathe in for me, Ms. Howard?” 

She placed a warm hand on your leg, “Only if you call me Billie Dean.” 

Your eyes met hers and you knew if you didn’t look away within five seconds you would be trapped forever in a bottomless sinkhole with no way out. Her eyes were chocolate brown with tiny specks of gold; the warmest color you had ever seen. So you blinked. And you looked away, back to the task at hand. 

“Can you breath in for me Billie Dean?”

She smirked but concealed it quickly. Not without you noticing of course. 

Billie Dean took a deep breath in and let it go slowly. 

“Good,” you soothe, and move the stethoscope further down her chest. She repeated her actions. You moved further down her chest. She did the same. 

At her third breath you move your stethoscope away and hover your hand over the buttons holding her shirt together. If you were being honest this was really just a charade to give yourself some sense of relief. If Billie Dean was unscathed you could breathe again with the knowledge you’d kept her from harm’s way successfully. Plus it gave you a reason to be closer to her; touch her.

“May I?” 

Billie Dean nodded in consent, pink slowly starting to tint her cheeks. You reached slowly to undo two buttons from her blouse, fingers grazing her warm skin slightly. You felt her breath grow unsteady beneath you. 

Your eyes met hers and you knew if you didn’t look away within five seconds you would be trapped forever in a bottomless sinkhole with no way out. Her eyes were chocolate brown with tiny specks of gold; the warmest color you had ever seen. So you blinked. And you looked away, back to the task at hand. 

Billie Dean took a deep breath in and let it go slowly. 

At her third breath you move your stethoscope away and hover your hand over the buttons holding her shirt together. If you were being honest this was really just a charade to give yourself some sense of relief. If Billie Dean was unscathed you could breathe again with the knowledge you’d kept her from harm’s way successfully. Plus it gave you a reason to be closer to her; touch her.

You pressed the cool metal right above the wire of her white lace bra that was barely visible, mostly covered by the silk of her shirt.

Through the instrument you could hear plainly how much Billie Dean’s heart rate increased. She breathed in, then out. And you backed away. Buttoning up her shirt again, you moved to untuck her blouse from her skirt and lift the back. 

You looked her in the eyes and placed one hand on her shoulder while the other reached up her back under her shirt. 

“Breath in,” you reminded her softly. She’d been holding her breath.

You leaned in a little more to get better access and her pulse skipped when your cold hands brushed her spine.

“Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” she answered breathily. 

“Your heart is beating so fast.” 

Billie Dean opened her mouth to respond but must have thought better of it and abruptly stood from the couch. The moment happened so fast, you were still holding up the stethoscope in your left hand. The instrument is still in your ears. 

She tucked her shirt back into her shirt black skirt quickly and seemingly all in one breath. 

You removed the stethoscope from your ears and placed it back into your bag, then rose to stand in front of Billie Dean. You were three inches taller than her but with her heels on you were nearly the same height. 

You reached out your hand as an offer, but would never demand. 

She accepted it and stood closer. You could smell her expensive perfume from here and it made your head spin. 

“I saw you too, you know,” she said. Her tone was lower and quieter. 

“What do you mean?”

“On the ground. I saw you on the ground.”

You couldn’t help the embarrassed blush that came to your face. 

“Not one of my proudest moments,” you say in response. 

She squeezed your hand and moved closer.

“No. I mean...I saw him kick you when you were on the ground. I saw him hurt you. You’re worrying over me when I should be worrying over you.” 

Billie Dean neglected to say how she saw red when you were being beaten. Her vision bled into a dark crimson color and it took every bit of restraint in her body to not do something. But she knew she would only make it worse. You were being hurt but you were still in control and her getting involved would’ve just gotten in your way. 

“I’m okay, Billie Dean. I‘ve been trained. I’ve seen worse.” 

And she believed you. She also believed that she might kill every person who ever touched you, no matter their intentions. 

“Can I see?” She asked. You knew she meant well but you weren’t about to let her see what you assumed by your pain to be extensive injuries. 

“I’m okay, Billie Dean. And I haven’t finished your examination.” 

“Y/N -“ before she could finish her sentence she slammed her eyes shut and her face scrunched in a look of pain. 

“Billie Dean?” You asked and moved to place your hands on her arms. She brought a hand to her eyebrow and applied pressure there. But she didn’t respond. 

You watched her for a minute more before speaking again. 

“Billie Dean.” 

She opened her eyes and sighed like the feeling had passed. 

“Who’s Brody?” She asked when she looked at you. 

The name hit you like a water balloon on a cold winter day. It was hard to feel her warmth under your hands even though her presence was still there. 

“M-my Chief,” you said unsteadily. 

Of all the ghosts who’d visited you so far, he was not one of them. You were waiting for him. 

Billie Dean lifted a hand to caress your cheek. The heat brought you comfort. But you felt undeserving and you pulled away. 

You left for the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You needed a moment away from Billie Dean before you allowed yourself to be vulnerable with her again. 

You let your head drop against the cold metal of the refrigerator as you collected your thoughts. Sometimes you forgot that Billie Dean was really here in an official capacity. And that you were going to have to deal with your ghosts with her in order to get rid of them. It was a reality that, as you got closer to Billie Dean, you grew to loathe. 

After filling a glass and taking a breath you walked back into the living room and handed it to Billie Dean. 

“Are you okay?” You ask. “That looked like it hurt.”

She accepted the water and smiled gratefully, taking a sip. 

“I’m fine. Certain spirits have stronger presences than others and they affect me differently.” 

You nod in response, “And he’s here now?” 

“He was. I can’t feel him anymore. Is this his first time here?” 

“Yes,” you spoke, “Did he seem...angry?” 

Billie Dean shook her head, “No. Just like he had something he needed to say. But couldn’t hold on long enough to do it.” 

You nodded again. Your mind immediately went to the place Billie Dean had expected it to. She could see it the moment it happened. But you smiled and pushed it away, looking as though it never had happened. 

“The dead can hold a grudge better than most Scorpios. But he’s not one of them,” she said and briefly placed a hand on your forearm. 

“You’re not getting out of your examination, Billie Dean.” 

She chuckled lowly, “Of course not.” 

She finished her glass of water and set it on the coffee table. The moment the cup came in contact with the wood she doubled over and moaned out.

You said nothing and dropped down to your knees to soften the blow as she fell over. Immediately she curled into you and whined in pain. You wrap your arms around her and press her head to your chest. 

“He’s...” she broke off to gasp as she felt a sharp jab to her abdomen. 

“He’s trying to tell me something.” 

You held her desperately, knowing there was nothing you could do to protect her from a ghost. 

“Push him out Billie Dean,” you instructed firmly. 

She shook her head and leaned further into you. 

Her fingers curled up into fists and she clenched them tightly. 

“Billie Dean push him out, please.” 

Her body tensed and became taught and she let out a low groan, “No,” she garbled. 

When her body uncurled you grabbed her jaw with both your hands and forced her to look at you. 

“Push him out,” you ordered. 

Billie Deans eyes shut tight and her brows furrowed.

“No. It’s important.”

You pressed your forehead to hers, “Please Billie Dean. Please.” 

She looked at you and your eyes were pleading with her. Conveying to her that you can’t protect her like this and that terrifies you. She knows you still need her and she knew draining herself completely would only harm you both. 

She nodded against you as you held her tightly. You didn’t know if you could give her any strength but you could sure try. 

“Leave me, Brody Hunter. I command you to leave!” She yelled in a booming voice. Her head flew back for a few moments before her whole body relaxed and slumped forward into your waiting arms.

You hope she felt secure in your embrace. You’ve been told before that your skin is too cold and your limbs are too boney but after your time in the military you’d developed more defined muscles and you hope they provided some comfort to her. You hadn’t touched anyone in so long. You had nothing to go by. 

“Billie Dean,” you breathed her name like a revelation. 

She sighed and pulled back. 

“He’s gone. I’m okay.” 

You nod and give a small smile, “Can you stand?”

She tried, but when Billie Dean rose her knees buckled under her. You swept her up like a newly wed bride and held her close. 

“I’m taking you to my bedroom,” you stated matter of fact. 

“What a charmer,” she groveled. 

Pushing through the door to your room you were glad you were a naturally tidy person. Your bed was made perfectly and your space was spotlessly clean. You were a little neurotic that way. 

Once you laid her down on top of the comforter you flicked on the lamp sitting on your bedside table. It provided a soft orange glow over the room. 

Billie Dean shifted a bit and moved to sit up against your pillow. You awkwardly sat on the edge of the bed, not quite knowing where to go from here. 

“That was intense,” you said in an attempt to break the tension. 

“That was being a medium, sweetheart,” she replied. Her voice was a little strained. 

“I don’t envy you,” you say as you allowed your hand to rest on her shin. You moved your thumb back in forth over her skin. 

She just smiled in response and sighed deeply. 

“Are you alright?” 

Billie Dean chuckled and fixed you a harmless glare. 

“If I had a penny for every time you asked me that today.” 

“Yes, I know.”

Billie Dean conceded and let her smile leave her face. 

“I’m okay. But I’m tired. And cold.” 

Your eyes brightened. That was something you could help with. 

“I’ll get you some pajama bottoms to change into?” Before she could object you went to your closet and opened a draw full of pants. You didn’t exactly have pajamas so you grabbed a pair of your blue Navy PT sweats. 

“Here you go. Do you need help?”

Her eyebrows quirked. 

“I’m not entirely helpless, Y/N.” 

You chuckle empathetically and make your leave, shutting the door behind you to give her privacy. 

You made your way to the medicine cabinet in your bathroom to grab two Advil and then to your kitchen to brew a quick pot of mint tea with a dash of honey. By the time you procured them both you figured was enough for her to change in. 

At your room you knock lightly on the door, “Are you decent?” 

“Rarely but do come in,” you heard from the other side. You smiled to yourself but quickly corrected it before she could see. 

You place the tea and pills on the bedside table and try not to choke on the site of her in your clothing. 

You pull off a throw blanket from a chair in the corner of the room and drape it over her. 

“Better?” You ask. 

Billie Dean reached out a tentative hand for you. You took and held it. 

“Better,” she repeated, “Thank you.”

You give her a nod and smile in response. 

She ran her thumb over the back of your hand and you were at a loss for what to do next.

“Will you lay with me?” She asked. Your heart stuttered at the notion. But who were you to deny her?

“Of course,” you say, and climb onto your bed next to her. She drapes the other side of the blanket over you too. 

_______

You’d spent the past hour talking about nothing in particular. Billie Dean’s past mostly. Considering the fact that she’d grown up in an entirely different era than you, you were more than curious. She told you about her claim to fame; her tennis game. Apparently she was quite good and nearly made it big time if it weren’t for her rival, Jennifer Hoffman. Jenny was her first female crush, at the age of twenty. When she’d caught her crying in the locker room after losing a match one day, Jenny confessed her worries about losing the championship and Billie Dean decided then that the happiness of the woman she liked outweighed the importance of her winning. You wonder if Billie Dean has always put others before herself, before her own good. 

Once you hear Billie Dean’s stomach growl, you bolt to the kitchen to make her some food despite her protest. It only takes about seven minutes to boil and after you’d poured some of the chicken noodle soup into a big bowl and plopped a metal spoon in it you rush back to your room to hand it to her. 

Billie Dean smiles appreciatively as you sit by her feet watching. When she takes the first sip she grimaces at the temperature, too hot to have not blown on first. You mistake the subliminal action as her disliking it and immediately spiral into a mindscape of self loathing. She notices, surely, and feels bad for making you think you did wrong. Billie Dean finds your caring disposition endearing.

You take the bowl from her hands and set it on the bedside table. 

“It’s gross, isn’t it? It’s out of a can, I haven’t been to the grocery in days-“

What happened next was so fast, your brain was stuck playing catch up. 

Billie Dean grabbed the collar of your light pink sweater gently and pulled you in until her lips connected with yours. 

Your stomach dropped as you were consumed by the warm embrace of her mouth. Your eyes closed naturally and you sighed softly through your nose. Her fingers moved from your sweater to the underside of your jaw as she bit your bottom lip with the hesitance of a child before a guardian. 

The bite sent a slick heat to your nether regions, laying hot in your belly. It was a fire you hadn’t felt in so long, you forgot the power it could hold over you. 

You pulled back reluctantly. Grasping the hand under your jaw in your own and squeezing. 

“Billie Dean,” you say through an unsteady breath, “You’re not feeling well.”

She squeezes your hand back. 

“I feel well enough to do what I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” 

Though the words made your heart swoon, you stood your ground. 

“I won’t take advantage of you In this state.”

Billie Dean’s eyes grew bold in their seriousness. Her voice took the inflection of a teacher getting a point across to a student. 

“You’re not taking advantage of me, I assure you.”

You open your mouth to protest. 

“Y/N?”

“Yes?” 

“Please kiss me.”

_You heard the lady._

A deep exhale leaves your mouth as you pull her back into your lovers embrace. Billie Dean’s body was alive and warm, wrapped in the security of your arms. 

Your lips connect again and again until the kisses lose their chastity and become something more. 

Her body urges to be closer to yours, though there’s hardly any room between the two of you already. 

When her teeth tug on your bottom lip this time, you open your mouth in a welcoming gesture. Billie Dean takes the offer without hesitance, slipping her tongue inside. 

The simultaneous noise you both make when your tongues meet sends a distinct shiver down your spines. 

Billie Dean grasps your sweater and puts pressure on your ribs, making you gasp into the kiss. She pulls away with wide apologetic eyes. 

“I’m so sorry!”

Her hands still mid air, unable to decide where to put them. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a crooked smile. 

“Does it...does it hurt?” She asked, looking from you to where your ribs should be under your shirt and back. 

“No,” you lie. And put your hand under her jaw, fingers cupping the back of her scull tenderly, pulling her closer. 

“You’re lying,” she says, pulling back slightly before you could kiss her again. 

You sigh a defeated sigh, knowing Billie Dean wouldn’t put up with any martyrdom tonight. 

She lifts a hand tentatively in the direction of your abdomen. The soft lamp light reflected off her light blue nails, reminding you of Cinderella’s glass slippers. Just as delicate. Just as striking.

“May I?” She asked quietly, ready to accept a negative response should one come. 

Not trusting your voice to remain steady at the prospect of being exposed before Billie Dean, you nod yes.

She looks at you, then back down; slowly lifting your thin cable knit sweater higher and higher until a bruise in its early stages of development began to appear.

It’s color was a deep purple, more morose than angry in its appearance. 

Billie Dean’s intake of breath was impressingly hard to detect. You wouldn’t of heard it had you not been so close. She schools her face well, but her eyes gloss over slightly. And her chest caved in as if unable to bear the weight of the mark on your skin. The injury you sustained protecting her. 

She looked into your eyes again. You smiled kindly, and warm. Forgiving in its nature. 

She brushed her fingers softly over the purpling skin there. Then leaned down slowly, to drag her lips across it too. Gently, she kissed your ribs one by one until she met the swell of your breast, held by the beige cup of your bra. She kept moving up until she was able to lay a kiss on your collarbone. Dip her tongue softly into the gap between your collarbone and your shoulder. She then kissed up your neck to your ear, tugging on it barely with her teeth before running her tongue over it. 

Billie Dean brushed her thumb over your cheek, and then connected her mouth with your own. Her hand fell to support your back, between your shoulder blades. The tenderness of her touches were a kindness you’d never known. Your heart dropped at the actions as you felt undeserving of her gentle ministrations. But then her tongue traced your bottom lip and your mind when blank. 

“Let me take care of you, honey.” 

Your mind wanted to detest. Tell Bills Dean that you don’t need to be taken care of, that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. But her eyes are honest and kind, and your bones ache to be held and touched with her tenderness. 

She knows what you’re thinking, of course she does. Knows the longer they stay like that, the greater the chance is that you’ll decide you shouldn’t do this. So she doesn’t wait for a response. 

She applies a gentle pressure to your shoulders, encouraging you to lay back against the pillows beside her. When you do, she leans on her side to hover slightly above you. 

On your back you feel vulnerable, laid open bare. Your breaths begin to quicken with uncertainty. 

“It’s okay,” Billie Dean placed her hand over your heart; feels the woodpecker of a beat pounding against her palm. 

“I won’t hurt you,” she cooes. And you know she would never. But it doesn’t calm your pulse. 

Billie Dean runs her nails softly across the length of your cloth covered arms, and your chest deflates with the sense of safety the motion brings. 

You smile, and pull her against you slowly. 

Her lips return the smile with earnest, as she lays her right leg over your left. Billie Dean rests the majority of her weight on her forearm beside your chest so she can apply only the gently pressure of her body onto yours. 

You raise your hand to move a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear, then allow your fingers to stray. They trace her right eyebrow, then fall to her lips, running over them softly. 

With a soft tug of her chin, you bring her plump pink lips to yours in a short kiss. 

“Thank you,” you breathe against them. 

She smiles a smile that makes your knees go weak. You’re grateful to be horizontal in that moment. 

“Come here,” she whispers and pulls you in again. 

You kiss and you kiss, and you kiss. You could never tire of kissing her lips. I’m fact, you’d rather prefer to never leave this position. But you remember the state Billie Dean was in just minutes ago. She needed to rest and regain her strength. 

You leaned back until your mouths separate, but Billie Dean followed you until her whole body laid against you on the bed. At the pressure of a woman’s body against you so fully, your eyes roll back under your closed eyelids. 

But you cared too deeply for Billie Dean to risk anything. 

“Billie-“ her lips silenced you. And when you were certain you wouldn’t have the willpower to try again, she pulled back with eyes open and willing. 

You knew she was too stubborn to stop for the sake of her own well-being; so instead you suggested, “Let me hold you?”

Her eyes closed and a shiver passed over her at your question. You wonder if anyone had ever held her before. 

“Yes,” she breathed, and settled herself on your side. 

Her head rested heavily on your chest, and her arm secured itself across your waist possessively. 

Her fingers traced where she remembered your bruised ribs to be. 

Her eyes met yours. 

“Does it hurt?” She asked again.

“No,” you say. And this time you mean it. How could it when Billie Dean’s fingers were brushing over your ribs ever so lightly without reprieve. How could it, with the warmth of Billie Dean’s body so close. 

She believed you this time. 

______

### Day Fourteen

In the morning, when the crisp chill of Autumn flowed in naturally from the cracked window and sunlight filled the bedroom, Billie Dean rose to find herself alone. 

She ran her hand across the sheets where your body used to be, and the space was cold. She deduced you’d been away for some time. 

Reluctantly leaving the bed, Billie Dean walked into the room’s joint bathroom to fix her hair and run water over her face, attempting to salvage what was left of her subtle makeup. She was glad to have applied it reservedly yesterday morning rather than her usual do. 

Once satisfied that she didn’t look like a girl who’s just had a heavy make out session followed by the deepest sleep she was sure she’d ever had, she took a steadying breath. 

“Come on Billie,” she said to herself in the mirror. 

Billie Dean padded quietly into the kitchen where she found you, freshly showered and ready for the day; clad in a long sleeve baby blue cardigan and Levis. You were simmering apples on the stove as you nursed a cup of coffee. The combination of smells was delectable enough for Billie Dean to suppress a moan. 

She walked behind you, gently placing her hands on your slim waist, running her fingers over the hipbone that poked through your light denim jeans. 

You smile to yourself. 

“How many of these do you own?” She asked while pulling at the hem of your sweater with a teasing voice. 

“Before I went into full service, Ralph Lauren had a sale. I figured I should be prepared for the day I didn’t live in my uniform,” you say with a small laugh. 

Billie Dean chuckled and rested her chin on your shoulder, wrapping her arms around your waist. 

You exhaled through your mouth at the ease of it all. 

“That smells heavenly,” Billie Dean crooned in your ear. The chills her deep voice sent down your spine likely didn’t go unnoticed. 

“I hope you like apple turnovers,” you smile. 

“It’s been ages since I’ve cooked for someone,” you add as an afterthought. 

Billie Dean’s arms tighten around you, “Well I’ll never say no to your cooking.” 

You bite your lip. 

“There’s coffee in the pot if you’d like some.” 

Billie Dean hummed and moved to pour herself a cup. 

“No kale green smoothie this morning, sailor?”

She leaned back against the cool countertop as she observed you turning apples over in the pan, adding a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg here and there. 

You motion to the sink where a smaller blender is drying upside down on a dish towel. 

Billie Dean laughs, “I’m guessing this means you already went for your morning run too.” 

“My day starts at 0400, Billie Dean.”

She took a tentative sip of the black coffee and hummed lowly at the rich flavor. 

“What is this?” She groaned. 

You turn to show her your grin, toothy and smug. 

"Café Du Monde.”

Billie Dean’s eyebrows rose. 

“New Orleans?”

You smile and go back to watching over the apples. 

“I was stationed there for two years,” you answer, non committal.

“You didn’t happen to join a coven while you were there, did you?” 

You laughed fully at her question, not expecting the jest. 

Billie Dean’s eyes brighten at the sound. 

“I did conduct some intelligence business with their Supreme here and there, if you must know.”

Billie Dean’s posture straightened at the information, clearly interested in the subject. 

You shake your head slightly at her reaction and turn the heat off on the stove, moving to roll the pastry dough. 

“She reminds me a lot of you, actually.” 

Billie Dean shifted in place, “Oh?”

You nod your head, but do not elaborate. 

She sidles up beside you, putting her mug down. 

“And how do you figure that?”

You look up at Billie Dean and smudge a bit of flower along her chin with your thumb. She blanches at the action. 

“Reckon you’re both stubborn as an ox,” you say with a mischievous glint in your eye. 

She opens her mouth to say, “I am not st-“

You cut her off by kissing the flour off her chin. 

“Reckon you’re both beautiful as can be too.” 

Billie Dean exhaled and shook her head, “Flattery will get you nowhere Ms. L/N,” she said with a point of her index finger. 

“You sure about that?” You ask with a smirk, moving into Billie Dean’s personal space. 

“I’m certain,” she said with a steely inflection. 

You walked her back until she was pressed against the counter, back against the marble, hips pressed into yours. You place your hands atop the counter on either side of her waist, and leaned forward until your breath brushed across her ear. With the slightest pressure, you nibble at her earlobe. 

“Absolutely certain?” You ask in a low tone. 

Billie Dean opened her mouth to respond but only a strangled sigh made it through. She closed her eyes, long lashes shutting against each other. Light, tasteful, eyeshadow colored her exposed eyelids. You study the way her chest rises and falls unsteady. Then, satisfied with your ability to destabilize the all too put together woman, you pull back. 

“Are you familiar with them?” You ask as you go back to rolling pastry dough. Billie Dead shakes her head and collects herself with a steadying breath. 

“Of course,” she says, taking another sip of her coffee. Seeing her leaning against your counter with a USN mug held between her hands squeezes your heart at the domesticity of it all. You have to remind yourself that she is not yours, and you cannot allow yourself to become accustomed to this. Soon enough, Billie Dean will be called away to continue her work elsewhere and it’ll be you left cold in her absence. 

“You’ve met them all?” You keep your eyes focused on the task in front of you. If she notices your slight change in demeanor, she doesn’t mention it.

“Yes, I have. They’re quite the group of young women,” she says fondly. 

You nod in agreement, “Yes, they are. I’d like to think I became good friends with Misty Day in my time there. She’s truly gifted, that one.” 

Billie Dean grinned, “Not to mention she too adores a certain white witch who goes by the name of Stevie Nicks.”

“Does she?” You ask with faux surprise, “I guess it never came up,” you shrug your shoulders dramatically. It pulls a deep laugh from Billie Dean that you wish you could bottle up, only to use on the nights when the loneliness is so cold it bites your toes with its frost. 

Billie Dean gives your arm a teasing slap as she makes her way to sit at the counter in your kitchen and watch you form the rest of your pastries before putting them in the oven to bake. 

____________

### Day Eighteen

A few days later at around 7 am you were sitting on the edge of your brown leather couch, sipping a cup of coffee while watching the news, scribbling down words on a legal pad as you did. 

Slowly, Billie Dean moved into the kitchen to pour herself a generous cup of coffee before joining you on the couch.

“What’ve you got there, Louis Lane?” She asked as she rested her head on her palm, elbow braced against the couch. 

You turn to give Billie Dean a soft smile, “Good morning.” You move a stray eyelash off her cheek with your thumb and then return to your pad. “It’s my prayer list.”

Billie Dean’s eyebrows raise, “ _THAT’S_ your prayer list? That’s practically Don Quixote.” 

You chuckle lightly, “Reckon we both share the mission to civilize.” 

She shook her head, “Of course you’ve read Don Quixote. Your personal library belongs in the Smithsonian.”

“You flatter me,” you say as you continue to write.

Billie Dean set her coffee down and gestured for the paper, “May I?”

You hand her the pad and she reads your comprehensive list. Then she grabs your pen and adds something to the bottom. 

“You weren’t kidding,” she said in slight awe. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Your Catholic martyrdom is going to get you killed one day.” 

She gave you your pad back. At the bottom she’s written, “Please green-light Billie Dean Howard’s television series.” You chuckle to yourself and set it on the coffee table. 

When you turn back, Billie Dean levels you with a stare. The air thickens around you suddenly.

“What?” You ask. 

She looks down as if to think about her phrasing. 

“Will you ever forgive yourself? For what happened?” Billie Dean raised a hand hesitantly to rest over yours on top of your leg. When you looked her in the eyes, she squeezed gently.

“There is a justice higher than that of man. I will be judged by him,” you say by way of explanation. 

Her eyes soften. She wasn’t expecting a real answer from you. Because you never made it about you. Even when it was. 

“I pray that one day you will,” she says in a quiet voice. 

You smirk, “You don’t pray.”

“I do now,” she said with a faux haughty attitude. 

You both dissolve into a bit of giggles until she falls onto you. You pull her into you until her head is on your shoulder and her arm is locked through yours. Billie Dean releases a sigh and closes her eyes, listening contentedly to the anchor delivering this morning’s news. 

“You’ve sure got a lot to pray about, honey.”

You hum in response and squeeze her arm gently. 

“Can’t forget the one about your television series,” you jest.

Billie Dean giggles and it makes your heart soar that you can pull that reaction from her. 

The two of you sit content for the rest of the segment, reveling in the warmth of your bodies pressed together. 

Then a strong vibration from the arm of the couch pulled your attention away. Your phone was ringing. You reach for the device and flip it over to see the caller ID.

_Incoming Call: Misty Day_

“Hmm,” you humm under your breath. Billie Dean is still watching the show playing on the television. 

You press the green button and answer the phone, “Misty?” This gets Billie Dean’s attention. Her head twists in your direction with a curious look in her eyes. 

“ _Hey,_ ” comes the voice on the other end of the line, “ _This isn’t a bad time, is it?_ ”

Her voice is gravely and slow with a deep southern drawl. Your heartbeat picks up slightly. You and Misty were just friends; she’d confided in you after knowing her for a few months about her suppressed feelings for their Supreme, Cordelia Goode. And while you were close you couldn’t deny your residual feelings of attraction for her. She was stunning, all natural and flowing beauty derived from the earth and its elements. 

“Of course not. Is everything okay?” You ask. Usually your conversations were had over text because of your busy work schedule. Not that that mattered now. You know Misty preferred to talk over the phone anyway.

“ _Yeah, all good!_ ” she said with an evident nervous energy.

“Are you sure? You sound a little anxious.” Billie Dean gives you an inquisitive look which you answer with a reassuring smile and you tighten your hold around her. 

“ _Yeah, yeah, listen Y/N can I ask you a favor?_ ”

“Always,” you say. 

“ _Do you think I could come stay with you for a few days?_ ” Her tone was unsure.

“Of course Misty. What happened?” 

“ _What, can't I visit a good friend just for the hell’ov it?_ ” 

“You don’t want to talk about it over the phone?”

“ _It’s Delia. We kinda got in a big fight o’re somethin’ stupid and I said some mean thangs._ ”

“Does she know how you feel?” You ask, already knowing the answer.

The dead silence on the other end of the line answered your question well enough. 

“When are you coming over?”

“ _Next month? I really miss ya,_ ”

“I miss you too. Text me the details, okay?” 

“ _You betcha Y/N!_ ” Misty squealed and hung up. You laugh at her upbeat disposition and put your phone back down on the arm of the couch 

Billie Dean is watching you expectantly, waiting to be filled in. 

“Misty’s coming to stay with me for a few days next month. Her and Cordelia got in what sounds like a pretty big fight.”

Billie Dean hummed in thought, “And Misty has feelings for her?”

You gave her a lighthearted glare, but knew that the information couldn’t be in safer hands. “She’s loved her since they first met...four years ago.” 

Billie Dean’s eyebrows raised slowly in disbelief. “And Cordelia….?” 

“She loves her too, if the way she looks at Misty is anything to go by.”

After that you settle back into the companionable silence and Billie Dean’s head goes back to resting on your shoulder. You inhale the scent of her shampoo and your heart settles back into the unsteady rhythm again. The fight or flight rhythm you were so used to around Billie Dean. The rhythm always tiptoeing the line of a full blown catatonic panic attack but also nirvana. She intertwines her hand with yours smoothly and boy, that certainly didn’t help. But she rubs her thumb over your skin soothingly and you realize you really don’t care much whether or not you don’t live any further than this day. 

  
  


_______

### Day Twenty Five

A week later you’d become accustomed to being the person who saw Billie Dean Howard after a long day’s work. After she spent the evening holding the hand of a desperate mother who’d just lost her child and wouldn’t except anything less than explanation for the injustices of the world. When she was tired and traded her heels for a pair of slips and the worry lines on her forehead were more pronounced. After she received more unsatisfactory news about the likelihood of her show getting picked up by a network or after she had to deal with another asshole producer who’d only agreed to a client lunch to try and get into her pants. You were there. You’d make dinner, supply the wine, wait patiently for her to tell you about what was on her mind, should she choose to. Some nights she would go on about the frustrations of the day and the things she shouldn’t be having to still deal with at this point in her career. Some nights she simply enjoyed your company, you think, and the peace that came with it. You never expected anything from her, never pushed her. In your combined attempts to contact the spirits residing in your home, you hadn’t been very successful out. In fact Billie Dena had only made contact with any of them twice and not for long enough to find out why it was they were stuck in this realm. But she would always reassure you, when your efforts begat no fruit, that these things can take time and it’s normal. Well, as normal as ghosts can be. So you spend time together whether or not any ghost extermination is being done, and you can’t find it within yourself to complain. You enjoy spending time with Billie Dean. You take pride in being the person she chooses to be with when her day has been long and she didn’t have the energy to keep up her bravado any longer. Even when you’re just having polite conversation on the couch with an old film on in the background. Even when she can’t make it to your apartment and she has to call you to apologize. And it was, to your knowledge, mutual. Mutual that you found solace in each other’s presence. Which is why you were taken back by Billie Dean’s outburst this evening. You were at her apartment; she’d invited you over for dinner. She’d been waiting to hear back about her potential pilot episode she was supposed to start filming in the coming weeks. There was an investor who was still deciding whether or not to green light the funding for her episode and she was supposed to hear from him tonight. When she got the call you listened in from the kitchen as she excused herself to her bedroom for some privacy. When you heard nothing from her side of the line for some time you worried the news hadn’t been good. Your suspicion was confirmed when she came out with a face blank of emotion. Disappointed, but not surprised. She’d dealt with rejection before. 

You give her some space at first, allowing her to collect herself in the restroom while you stir the soup you had simmering on her stove. You hear her slam the medicine cabinet through the closed door and grimace to yourself. You were never very good with comforting people you were close to, or at least people you felt close to. You considered what move to make first. Should you offer to leave her alone? Pull her into a hug? Ask her if she’s okay? You were unsure and your fingers began to tingle with anxious nerves. 

Billie Dean padded back into the kitchen quietly and placed her hands against her marble counter next to the stove, aside from you. She took a few deep breaths and took comfort in the cool surface beneath her skin. You turn the burner down a little and look to Billie Dean to gauge what to do next. She stared blankly at the counter with shallow breaths so you decided to make the first move. You reach your hand out to rest on top of hers gently and rub your thumb over the prominent veins running across her freckled skin. Your pale freckled skin and her tan freckled skin made for a beautiful juxtaposition, you think fleetingly. 

When she says nothing still, you become uneasy and unsure of yourself. What now? You take a breath and open your mouth, not certain yet what you were going to say.

“I don’t want you here!” She yelled as she slammed the palms of her hands against the marble countertop. The moment she said the words her eyes grew wide and tears collected there. Regret pooled in her belly and guilt sat heavy in her chest. Of course she didn’t mean that. She was angry with her day, with her manager, but most of all with herself. For failing. Seeing you, being with you, has been her only source of relief for months. You brought her peace, not strife, and she was projecting her anger and insecurities onto you when it hurt most because she knows you care about her. And she knows that you struggle to feel secure in your relationship with her. Though you may not voice it, you struggle to see your place with Billie Dean. Struggle to accept the fact that maybe you’re wanted. Needed even. So Billie Dean knew she was striking a sore spot by saying what she said. She did it on purpose because in that moment her self hatred was so strong, so palpable, that she couldn’t bare to have you, the sun after a day of rain, standing around assuring her of her worth. Could not stand another moment of feeling your fingers brush across her skin and the warm tingles that follow. She needed to sit in her pain and she couldn’t do that while you were there. 

The apartment is eerily still. The air is thick and unsettling. Your back tenses, muscles and ligaments coiling tightly. Billie Dean can see the movement from under your thin white t-shirt. And when you reach to turn off the burner the first tear falls from her eyes. She lets it roll down her cheek without catching it, too afraid to move. 

You don’t even breathe when you say, “You’re right,” your back still facing her, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

In one movement you grab your keys and your phone from the counter and stuff them in the back pocket of your denim jeans before walking straight to the door. 

Billie Dean flies out of her seat without thought and rushed to grab for your wrist. 

“Y/N, wait,” you shrug her off and swing open her door. 

“Y/N, please!” She pleads, but you pay her no attention. You don’t even look at her. You shut her door behind you and walk as fast as you can down the flight of stairs to her lobby. 

Back in her apartment Billie Dean’s free flowing tears are impeding her clear vision, but she spots your Sherpa lined jean jacket thrown over a chair in her living room. Her eyes lift to the windows to see the steady pouring of rain battering against them. She knew you parked a few blocks over. You would be drenched and frost bitten by the time you made it to your car. 

“Fuck,” she hisses and runs to slip on a pair of flats and shrug into a heavy coat. She stuffs your jacket under her arms and wraps her coat around it to keep it dry. Then she locks her door quickly and runs down to her lobby and out onto the street. Vaguely she can make out your thin figure in the near distance, hair matted for your head, shirt clinging to your bones. 

“Y/N!” She shouts and picks up the pace trying to catch you. It was no use this far away. 

When she blinked to look for you again, she couldn’t find you. Your white shirt was nowhere to be found. Billie Dean picked up her pace into a full on sprint, perfectly hair-sprayed hair clinging wet to her forehead. 

“Y/N?!” She shouts. 

As she gets closer she notices your car still parked on the shoulder of the road. But she doesn’t see you. 

It’s not until she’s about twenty feet away does she see you on the ground, curled into a ball, hands covering your nose. 

“Y/N!” She yells and rushes to your side. She drops to her knees without a second thought and pulls you into her lap. 

“Y/N, look at me!” She shouts through the pouring rain. She grabs your hands and pulls them away from where they were shielding your face. 

She gasped at the image they revealed. Blood ran from your nose without hindrance and the surrounding skin was colored a dark purple. There was a large cut on your bottom lip that also bled steadily. Billie Dean couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped her mouth. 

“Baby,” she cried and pulled you to her chest, “oh baby.”

You didn’t say a word. Just kept your eyes shut in your daze. 

“Where are your keys?” You heard her ask you. She patted your pockets in search for them but neither your keys or phone were there. 

“They took them,” you croaked quietly. 

“Who?” She cried, “Who took them?” 

You slowly make your way to your feet, putting distance between you and Billie Dean. Her face scrunched up in confusion at your action and her hands reached out but you back away. 

“Y/N?” 

You turn away from her and walk unsteadily down the sidewalk, the rain washing your blood onto your white shirt, covering it with spots of red. 

“Y/N, what are you doing?!” Billie Dean runs up behind you and grabs one of your arms. You flinch out of her grip.

“You’re hurt and you’re confused, please come here,” she cried out. Her hand reached forward in an offering. 

“I’m not confused,” you say and walk to the curb of the street to hail a cab. 

Billie Dean pulled your jacket out from under her and wrapped it around your shoulders. You look at her in slight surprise. 

“What are you doing?” Her hands held onto your biceps in a vice grip. Eyes wide. 

“Hailing a cab,” you say and one pulls up to the sidewalk before you, slightly showering your shoes in water. 

You go to open the door when she grabs your arm and pulls you back. 

“Y/N! You’re not thinking straight. Come back with me, please.”

You look her in the eyes and level her with a cold stare. 

“But you don’t want me. Or have you forgotten.” 

Her mouth hung open slightly and her eyes displayed so much hurt you almost felt bad. 

You pull the cab door open and shut it behind you. Telling the driver your address, he pulls into the street and drives away. You don’t look outside your window to see Billie Dean Howard standing alone on the sidewalk drenched in the pouring rain, hand still slightly reaching out. 

_______

### Day Twenty Six 

The taxi driver, a young man in his early twenties and a clean shave, shooed you out of the cab without letting you pay. He’d pitied you and your likely broken nose. You thank him and quickly make your way into the lobby of your apartment complex and to your landlord’s office. She was going grey with large square prescription glasses sitting on her nose as she slumped over her desk reading documents. 

“Pardon me ma’am,” you address softly. 

She moves her glasses to the top of her head and greets you with a big smile. Then it drops upon seeing the blood covering your shirt.

“In my many areas of expertise, emergency medicine is not one of them.”

You give her an empathetic laugh at the full joke and walk up closer. 

“I was mugged. Would it be possible to get a copy of my key?”

She sighed and went to a cubby in the back of her office.

“Normally, no. But I have a soft spot for sailors,” she says with a wink. 

You thank her and take the elevator to the third floor, unlocking your apartment. It’s cold and you’d left a window open in your living room so the seal had let in some rain. You don’t pay attention to it or bother taking your shoes off before you drop onto your leather couch and close your eyes, falling into a deep sleep.

______

“C’mon, c’mon,” Billie Dean mumbled as she taps her fingers on the marble counter. The telephone she holds up to her ear continues ringing and ringing. 

“I hope whoever this is has a goddamn good reason for calling this residence this late at night,” came a rough voice. 

“Constance,” she breathed in relief. 

“Billie Dean?” She wondered, “I’m the one who calls you at all hours of the day, not the other way around.” 

Billie Dean shakes her head, “Constance, I think I made a huge mistake.” 

A laugh comes from the other line.

“You? A mistake? I find that unlikely.”

Billie Dean closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She didn’t have time for her monologues right now. 

“It’s Y/N.” She says plainly. 

There’s a pause. 

“What did you do?” 

“I told her I didn’t want her here.” 

“Now why in the name of all that is holy would you say such a thing?” 

Billie Dean sighs, “I wasn’t thinking. I was angry with myself. I took it out on her.”

“Clearly,” Constance huffs. Then, “What do you need from me?”

“She was mugged on her way to her car. She’s hurt. But she won’t let me see her and her phone was stolen. I don’t know what to do.” 

Constance takes a moment to think. 

“Come over in an hour. I have a spare key to her apartment. Freshen up and look presentable.”

There’s a distinct click on the other line letting Billie Dean know she’d hung up. She sets the phone down and takes a deep breath before heading to the shower to rinse off this horrible day. 

_______

After Billie Dean showered, dried her hair, and applied a little makeup, she padded over to her closet to pick out a quick outfit. She pulled out a pair of brown tweed slacks from her dresser and clipped on her white lace bra behind her back. As she fingered through her silk blouses folded perfectly in another drawer her fingers came to a stop over a foreign article of clothing. She pulled the item out from the drawer and recognized it immediately. 

_Two nights ago it’d been an exhaustingly long day full of ungrateful clients and dissatisfying news from prospective producers. Billie Dean had a pair of reading glasses perched over her nose reading through her bills on her third glass of bourbon when she thought of you. Immediately the image of you sitting alone on your couch with a novel no doubt waiting for her to arrive came into her mind and her heart throbbed in her chest. She reached for the landline where it was hanging on the wall beside her and dialed your cell. It was 8 pm. You voice answered smoothly with that subtle southern drawl of yours that never failed to make her knees weak. She could tell you were tired by the tone of your voice and she felt guilty. She apologizes for calling so late, explaining that she just wanted to let you know she couldn’t make it over tonight._

_“Have you eaten?” You’d asked simply, ignoring her apology._

_When she thought of it, she hadn’t eaten all day aside from her coffee that morning. She’d accidentally neglected feeding herself due to her busy schedule, something that happened more often than she cared to admit. And she had a feeling you knew that too. So Billie Dean said no, she hadn’t. And you asked if you could come over. Before she could say she didn’t need to be waited on, that she was an adult, you said you hadn’t eaten either and have been wanting to try the new Mediterranean place by her apartment. Billie Dean wasn’t born yesterday. She knew you were only saying that because you knew she wouldn’t eat properly if you didn’t force her to. So she accepted._

_You hurried to pick up the food before the place closed, not bothering to change out of your jeans and crew neck sweatshirt you were wearing casually. You ran from your car to her building in your grey new balance sneakers as a downpour of rain dumped onto you. You hid the food under your sweatshirt best you could. When you finally got to her door, she opened it to see you soaking wet with a wide grin on your face. The scene made you both break into laughter. She pulled you in by the neck of the fabric and dragged you to the kitchen where she put the food on the counter and stood back to look at you fully. Then she laughed again, quieter this time. Something about the fact that you picked up food at 8 pm and ran through the rain just to make sure she’d eaten, just to make sure she wasn’t alone after a taxing day squeezed her heart uncomfortably so._

_Billie Dean walked into your personal space and began pulling off your sweatshirt._

_“You know, usually I prefer a bit of foreplay Miss. Howard,” you’d joked. She chuckled but said nothing._

_She took your wet sweatshirt in her hands leaving you only in a tight white t-shirt that stuck to the muscles in your arms and stomach just right. She pried her eyes away from your slim figure and walked to her laundry room._

_“I’m washing this,” she called from the other room. She brought you back a quilt and wrapped it around your shoulders before beginning to plate the food for you both. When she stood beside you again to eat she rubbed her hand across your back every so often in a warm gesture. It brought some color to your cheeks and, intentionally or not, made you warmer._

Now, Billie Dean held your sweatshirt in her hands and peered down at it. It was dark blue and read “US Navy” with a large golden anchor under it. She smiled and brought it to her face in hopes to smell some semblance of you but the detergent she’d used wiped away any trace. She sighed and pulled the sweatshirt on herself. Certainly something she would never have been caught dead wearing under ordinary circumstances. But she hoped that maybe, just maybe, it would help convince you of her sincerity. 

Quickly, Billie Dean pulled out of her building’s parking complex and drove to Constance’s home on the other side of West Hollywood. Not bothering to lock her car, she knocked in the older woman’s door. 

When Constance opened it, the woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“What the hell are you wearing?” She asked, though she clearly knew the answer by her dry tone. 

“It’s hers. Will you let me in?” 

Constance gives her a disapproving look but sighs and steps back. She pulls a pair of keys off her dining table and places them in Billie Dean’s hand.

“You better fix this,” she says with a good natured glare. 

Billie Dean nods slowly.

“I don’t care to know what’s going on here...but she’s a good woman. She’s been through tragedy her whole life and she doesn’t deserve any more. Neither do you.” 

Stunned by Constance’s kindness given the circumstance Billie Dean smiles and squeezes her hand.

“Thank you Constance. I owe you a bottle of Crown Royale.” 

“You bet your ass you do!” She called behind her as Billie Dean left in a hurry. She got into her car and pulled into the street, determined to make things right.

________

When Billie Dean finally arrived at your place, the door was unlocked. She tucked that away to get onto you about later and pushed her way in. 

It was freezing. Your windows were open and your heater was off. She hurried to close them shut and lock them before looking down at your couch to see you lying there asleep. She checks to make sure you’re still breathing. You are. She smiles in relief and walks down your hall to turn on your heater. Immediately it kicks on and the warmth calms Billie Dean’s nerves. 

She shuffles back to the couch and gently brushes her thumb across your cheek. 

“Y/N?” She continues to rub some heat into your skin. 

“Y/N it’s me, Billie Dean.” 

Slowly, you open your eyes. The first thing you notice is the beautiful angel hovering over you, cradling your face. Then you notice the pain. The pain is what assures you you aren’t dead. It certainly wasn’t as bad as things you’ve felt in the past, but it wasn’t comfortable.

“Billie Dean?” You ask groggily. She smiled wide enough for you to see her pearly white teeth. It was a stunning smile. You wish you saw it more often. 

“I’m here,” she says softly. She leans back as you sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes.

“How did you get in here?” You ask with squinted eyes. 

“Constance,” she says and you appreciate her honesty, but you also appreciate a friend who doesn’t give your house key away on a whim. Though, you’re sure, if Constance gave her your key she must’ve made a compelling case. 

“Are you alright?” She asks. You both know it’s a moot question. When you don’t answer she follows up with, “Do you think it’s broken?” 

You bring your hand up to feel your nose for the first time and, yes, it’s definitely broken. 

“I can set it,” you say with an unnervingly steady voice. Billie Dean’s face contorts to one of uncertainty as she sits next to you on the couch cushion. 

“I think I should take you to a doctor,” she says. 

You look at her, really look at her, for the first time since you’d been awake. Her hair was naturally a little wavy, but not curled the way it usually was. She wore some makeup, but not the amount she usually does. Her lips are void of lipstick, simply moist from her own saliva. They were a light pink and naked. It made you want to kiss them even more. Made you want to see what color they would turn after kissing them for hours. Then you noticed her lack of perfume. Just a simple women’s deodorant that gave off the faintest whiff of lavender. You wanted to know what Billie Dean smelled like. Lastly you notice she’s wearing your sweatshirt and that’s what really does it. Your breath hitches at the sight, and she notices. You lick your lips and clear your throat. 

You bring your fingers back up to your nose and straighten your posture as a way to brace yourself. Billie Dean senses what you’re about to do. 

“Y/N, wait I-“ 

_**CRACK** _

“Oh my word!” She gasps as you groan in pain. Her hands fly up to cover her open mouth as your eyes squeeze shut. You let the pain overcome you for a moment before it settles to a low buzz. 

After a few minutes, Billie Dean drops her hands to your legs and the tension leaves her shoulders. 

“Well?” She asks inquisitively. 

You chuckle, “Right as rain darlin’.” She sighs in relief. Then rises from the couch to pad into your kitchen. She wets a washcloth and comes back to sit next to you again. Without asking she tentatively begin to rub the dry blood from your face. Starting with your chin and slowly moving up. 

“I cannot believe you just did that,” she says in disbelief. 

You smirk, “It was one of the first things we learned how to do in basic training...” you trail off. “You think I’m mad, don’t you?” You ask, not for the first time. Your eyes are light and teasing but she knows that underneath lies the seriousness of the question. One you’ve been asking yourself more often than not lately. Ever since you’ve been home.

Billie Dean looks up at you. “I think you’re pretty sane, considering.” Then she goes back to wiping your face clean. Every once in a while her skin brushes your cheek as well and it makes you blush.

“Why’re you here then?” 

She wipes the area around your nose and you close your eyes briefly at the pain. Her’s are sorry as she looks up at you through her long eyelashes and blinks her focus to your hands resting in your lap. 

“To apologize.” 

“What for?” You ask.

She looks at you with a _‘you know exactly what for’_ but you ignore it. You need definitives now, especially now. You’ll settle for nothing less. 

“For how I behaved. For what I said. I didn’t mean it and you didn’t deserve that. You’ve been nothing but kind to me.” 

“That bothers you sometimes,” you say plainly. She stills her movements.

“I don’t understand what-,” she lies.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, “I’m the same way.” 

She stares up at you in a mixture of amazement and tension. You place your hand over hers on your cheek. Then you recite a line you’d heard once when you were much younger. Something as relevant now as it was then. 

“We accept the love we think we deserve, _Miss._ Howard.” 

She blinks then continues to clean the rest of your blood.

“Call me Miss. Howard one more time and see what happens, Petty Officer L/N.” 

You smile kindly and allow her to change the subject. You didn’t think you were ready for that discussion yet anyway. Maybe never will be. 

Once she clears your face of all the dry blood she goes to your bathroom and comes back with hydrogen peroxide and a clean cloth. She dabs the cloth with the liquid and holds it up.

“Ready?” She asks. 

“Yes, mother,” you grovel and she raises a challenging eyebrow at you. Then she raised the towel to gently press against your busted lip. Immediately the skin smarts around the wound and begins to bubble up with the peroxide. Billie Dean winces on your behalf at the sight. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs quietly. 

Satisfied after another ten minutes of first aid that she’d thoroughly disinfected everything, Billie Dean sat back with a relaxed sigh. She looked at you expectantly. 

“Is that my sweatshirt?” You ask. 

She looked down at herself and hummed like it was the first time she’d noticed. She rubs her fingers across the hem slowly in mock amazement.

“Is it? That’s odd.” 

______ 

After you’d showered you dried your hair until it was only damp and wavy and rubbed moisturizer into your face. Then you went to your closet to pull on a pair of jeans and forwent a bra, instead simply applying some old spice spruce deodorant under your arms and shrugging into a light blue cashmere sweater. 

When you pad silently back into the living room wearing warm knit socks, you find Billie Dean nursing a glass of red wine perched on your couch. She’d turned on your television at some point and played a soft jazz playlist. She also somehow managed to light your small fireplace directly below and the slight heat from the flames filled the space around you. The sight steals the breath from your lungs and without warning, your gaze immediately softens. 

“Hey sailor,” she croons when you sit next to her on the cushion. The later the night grows and the more tired she gets, the more gravelly Billie Dean’s voice becomes. The same way your slight southern accent grows more obvious as the day progresses. You love it. 

“You’ve been busy,” you say. 

Her lips curl into a seductive smirk behind the edge of the glass. It sends a slick of heat directly to your lower belly and goosebumps form across the expanse of your arms. Quite the polar opposite of responses you think fleetingly.

“Setting the mood,” she said through hooded eyes. Her tone was not lost on you. She took a long sip of her wine. 

“What for?” You ask, because right now your mind was jumping to a thousand different conclusions. 

Billie Dean gives you a look you can’t quite decipher before setting her glass down on your coffee table. She sat back to face you better and hesitantly placed a hand on your upper thigh. Your heart flutters and a slight blush undoubtedly rises to your cheeks. 

“For this,” she says, barely above a whisper, before she leans in slowly and places a wet kiss just beside your waiting lips. Then she pulls back slightly. Too far away for you to kiss but close enough to feel her breath on your face. 

“I need you to know,” she says evenly and with impressive composure, “That I care deeply for you. And I will always want you here. So long as here is with me.”

Your eyebrows come together in a look of confusion as this confession sends you reeling. Where was this coming from? Certainly this isn’t new. Billie Dean had to have been harboring this for a while now, it couldn’t have just come to light after what happened in her apartment. Could it have? Either way, why was she telling you this now? And, most importantly, could you believe her?

Billie Dean’s other hand comes to wipe gently under your eyes and it’s then that you realized a tear had fallen. She looks to you for some indication of what you’re feeling. But you don’t even know yourself. Her hand that wasn’t resting still on your leg, the one that had swiped away your stray tear, moved down from your cheek to settle on the crook of your neck. It was a firm and grounding touch, her thumb placed in the nook between your collarbones. The low thump of the cello accompaniment in the jazz ensemble lulled you into a calm state of contemplation. Billie Dean kept her eyes on you, but they were patient and not demanding. Dark chestnut brown and steadfast. You’d never been put in this place before. Or rather you had but never in the comfort of your own home in which there was no escape route readily available. You know, logically, that you’d didn’t have to say anything. Billie Dean would understand and be obnoxiously benevolent about it, but you couldn’t do that to her. She deserves everything you could give and more. At the very least, the truth. You felt the same; you did. And you want to tell her; you do. But the moment you say it you can’t take it back. It goes from something that belonged solely to you and you alone, to free real estate gifted to the universe to be used as ammunition against you. 

Talking makes things real. And real things end.

A soft crackle in the fireplace, a piece of wood being destroyed from the inside out by the encompassing heat of the flames, brings you back to reality. Billie Dean's breath wafts across your face and it smells like wine and something impossibly more decadent. Curled up on your couch in your sweatshirt Billie Dean looks like a fleeting dream. One that never lasts as long as you hope it would. You almost tell her you love her, in this moment. It’s in this moment you realize you love her. You knew it the whole time, knew it after the first evening you spent together. It’s just taken you this long to admit it to yourself. 

So, instead of saying any of those things, you smile and watch the skin around her eyes crinkle in response. You put your left hand on her waist and smooth the fabric of the sweatshirt with your thumb in a soothing manner before leaning in to kiss her softly. You felt her breath catch and you inwardly smirked to yourself. Her hand on your leg tightens its grip and squeezes around your muscles. The hand around your neck pulls you closer. “Oh,” she breathes as you connect your lips again. And you hold your caress this time, prolonging the kiss more than the others. Your nose pressed against her cheek as you embraced her with more love and tenderness than you thought you were capable of. You pull back before the kisses lose their chastity and Billie Dean matches your breathlessness. Her eyes looked to yours for answers that you weren’t sure you had. 

“I....” You what? You have no fucking clue. You’re terrified. Your tongue feels as heavy as lead, stuck to the roof of your mouth. The only plausible next step you can think of is kissing her again, but you know that’s not right. Your mind is running a million miles a minute and it’s apparently written all over your face because Billie Dean tilts her head to the side and pities you. 

“It’s been a long night. You should get some rest, sweetheart.” She pressed a tender peck to your chin and rose from where she was sitting beside you. You watched her as she walked to your island and grabbed her keys from the counter. Quickly, you intercepted her before she could make it any further across your apartment. You grab her keys from her hand and set them back on the counter. 

“Stay with me.” 

Billie Dean nods slowly and with hesitation and the skin around her eyes crinkles again in the way you find terribly endearing. You could live in this moment for the rest of your life without complaint, you think. 

You smile, a timid thing, and lead her down the hall to your bedroom. The bed reminds you of the moment you shared your first kiss and it brings a blush to your cheeks. When Billie Dean shuts the door behind her she stands sedentary in front of you, unsure of what to do with herself. You step forward until your nose nearly touches hers and you stuck a stray curl behind her ear. She sighs quietly at the action, your skin brushing against hers. Then you allow your hands to fall to the buckle of her slacks as you start to undo them. Billie Dean’s eyes grow wide in surprise, but she voices no complaint so you slowly move the zipper down, down, down. You drop to your knees and peel the material down her long legs, making sure to brush your fingers across her soft tan skin the whole way. Above you Billie Dean’s chest is rising and falling at a quicker rate than usual, her breath shallow. Her right hand comes to rest on your shoulder and rub the skin there. You kiss the inside of her thigh gently and pull her pants the rest of the way off her. When you stand and join her again her eyes wear more vulnerability than you’d seen in recent days. You assume because of your proximity and lack of clothing. Factor in that you’d just removed her slacks from your position on your knees. 

You start to undo the button of your jeans but she covers your hands in her own and then guides them away. She replaces them with her own and slides the zipper down with no haste or hurry. She’s taking her time. Slowly she drops to her knees and watches your eyes the whole time she pulls down your pants and you can see why her breathing was unsteady just moments ago. The sight of Billie Dean on her knees for you made you weak. She pushed the pile of your combined pants to the corner of the room and then pressed herself against you, hands holding you both together around your lower back. She leaned in until her mouth was just barely far away enough from you that you had to meet her halfway to bring your lips together in a warm embrace. It wasn’t lustful, just...loving. You felt it in your bones. You know she did too. Because when you break away she rests her forehead against yours and closes her eyes. You shift to rest your head on her shoulder and wrap your arms around her tightly. She sighs into your hair as she presses her nose to your head and inhales the scent of your shampoo. Your heart pounds in your chest almost in defiance. ‘Tell her you love her dammit!’ It seemed to say. And you wanted to, so badly. Your chest ached with the need to tell her you love her. But you’re nothing if not afraid and you can’t. So you hold her instead. 

Billie Dean releases you only enough to walk you both to your bed and pull back the covers. You crawl under the blankets as she discards her bra under her shirt and tosses it onto the pile of clothing in the corner. You hold the covers up for her and she shimmied up next to you until you’re face to face under the safety of your large comforter. You smile nervously and she returns it with more confidence than you can manage. Her hand reaches forward to cup your face and rub the skin underneath smoothly. You close your eyes at the sensation. She leans forward and places a soft kiss to your lips. You welcome it without thought and kiss her back. You tug on her bottom lip teasingly with your teeth and her breath hitches. But she smooths her hand down the side of your waist almost as a reminder that this is not the time. That this moment means more than what this night will lead to if you kiss her like that again. 

“Can I hold you?” You ask because nothing in this world comes close to the feeling of content that comes with holding Billie Dean Howard in your arms. 

“Of course,” she says breathlessly and rolls over to lay her head on your chest and wrap her arm around your waist. You embrace her in your warmth and press your fingers into her sweatshirt, well, you’re sweatshirt. She breathes out soft puffs of air across your collarbones and you’ve never felt more at ease in your entire life. You consider thanking her but correct your domesticated thought patterns quickly. 

As Billie Dean lays curled around you with your legs interwoven and her arm glued to your waist protectively, your heart knocks on the door again. ‘I love you!’ It shouts loudly, though muffled by the hand you had over its mouth. You stifle it and lock the door and push the notion deep _deep_ down. 

You press a kiss to the top of Billie Dean’s head and she hums against your chest. Tonight had been an absolute wreckage of misplaced emotions and confessions and regret and you were glad to let it sunset. Tomorrow morning, you hoped, would be easier perhaps. Perhaps by then you’ll have figured out what you want to say. Perhaps not. Either way the only worries on your mind washes away with the tide of Billie Dean's breath as she falls asleep in the safety of your arms. And you knew despite what you may face tomorrow, tonight you have her. And that’s enough for you. 

_______

### Day Twenty Seven 

When you wake the next morning it’s December first; roughly a month since you first met Billie Dean. 

The sun filtering through your thin white curtains illuminates your bedroom. The light is bright and steady which alerts you to the time of day. You always wake before the sun. At the latest you rise with the sun. Why did you sleep in and, more importantly, how did you sleep in? 

Your nose. There’s a slight constant throb of pain and when you touch your index finger to it, it stings. That’s right. You were mugged last night. You recall the event and allow yourself to think about the odd fact that you’d been accosted twice in one month when you hear a soft clank come from your kitchen. Immediately you throw your covers off and rise to your feet. You’re only wearing your blue sweater and grey cotton underwear and you shiver involuntarily at the exposure of your skin. It’s unusually cold for Los Angeles, but you can appreciate the weather’s accordance with the appropriate season. Cautiously, you crack your door open and pad quietly down the hallway. From your position you couldn’t see the intruder, but you could hear them walking around your kitchen on your hardwood floor. So you walk to the very end of the hallway and wait for the perpetrator to come to you. 

While you wait, you rub your forehead absentmindedly, briefly trying to remember how you’d ended your night last night. It was foggy to you. Had you left your door unlocked? 

You immediately refocus when you hear footsteps getting closer and closer. When the intruder rounded the corner you quickly grab their wrist and pin it behind their back before pushing them against the wall in one swift movement. 

A surprised _“oof”_ came from the person whose face was pressed against your hallway. It was a soft and feminine noise. Immediately you realize how small this person is, and when you press yourself closer, you feel their rear against your pelvis and it’s certainly not that of a man’s. 

“Y/N,” the person breaths shakily, but unafraid. You recognize the voice right away and loosen your grip. 

“Y/N it’s me, Billie Dean.” She says calmly and with composure. Fleetingly, you think that she’s handled this very well. 

Horrified, you release your hold on her wrist and gently turn her around to face her. Her back is still against the wall. Your confusion is written across your face and she takes it in stride. She brings her hands to rest on your waist and pulls you until your chests press against each other. 

“It’s just me. Just me,” she says while brushing her thumbs across the fabric of your sweater. “Do you remember what happened last night?” 

You close your eyes and force yourself to think back to last night. You fell asleep on your couch and then...then what? You hear soft jazz and feel a hand on your leg and you remember Billie Dean nursing a glass of red wine. She told you she cared about you...and you said nothing like a useless pansy. She didn’t leave after that? No...you remember taking off her pants...holding her against your chest. 

You look down to see Billie Dean dawned only in your sweatshirt and a thin pair of white lace panties. Her nipples press erect against the fabric of the navy sweatshirt. Her mind follows your logic. 

“Did we...?”

“No,” she says firmly, “We didn’t. You wouldn’t be able to forget it if we had.” She winks in good nature. You let go a relieved breath and smile. 

“Are you alright?” You ask her and raise the wrist you’d held earlier up for observation. 

“I’m okay,” she says softly with a kind gaze. You brush your thumb across the inside of her wrist. Her other hand is still holding your waist. 

“I didn’t mean to...throw you against the wall.” Well, you had, but only because you thought she was someone else. 

“It was a little hot,” she crooned, and this close it was practically directly into your ear. You laugh quietly. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little bit confused.” You apologize. 

Billie Dean places her other hand back on your waist, “Don’t apologize. Just come here.” She pulls you in further until you’re completely pressed together. Without shoes, you’re taller than her and she rests her head against your collarbone as you press your nose to her head and inhale the scent of her shampoo. The moment is so warm and full of love that you have to say something, the self-sabotaging wretch that you are. 

“What were you doing in there?” 

You can feel Billie Dean’s lips curl up against your chest. “Making breakfast...if burnt toast and coffee counts as breakfast.” 

You chuckle softly, “You’d make a terrible housewife.” 

Billie Dean laughs fully at your jab and your arms shake at the force of her movement. “I really would.” She says in agreement. “Do you want some coffee?” 

You hum “mhmm” and she releases you from her firm hold, arms falling back to dangle by her sides. You frown at the cold that creeped back to your limbs at the loss of contact until she slips a hand into yours to drag you into the kitchen. You wonder if she was cold without you too. 

She pours you a generous mug of black coffee and then one for herself. She rests perched against your counter top and you lean against the island opposite her. Only about three feet separate you. You thank her with a grateful smile and take a long sip of the hot drink. It travels down your throat and brings a comforting warmth to your stomach. 

The morning is cold as is evident by the goosebumps forming on both your and Billie Dean’s thighs. The windows were closed and you didn’t feel like turning the heater on and recycling stale air around your apartment so when you finish your cup of coffee, you excuse yourself to the living room to light the brick fireplace. You kneel on the chilled wooden flooring and light a flame underneath the bundle of firewood stacked there while simultaneously twisting on the gas. When the flame grew rapidly, you ease up on the gas and close the chain protecting you from the loud cracks of the fire. You stay there for a moment, basking in the heat on your face and the easiness that comes with being mesmerized by the patterns in the orange flames. After a moment you place your hands on your thighs for stability and stand slowly. 

As you stare down, entranced as you always were by the dancing flames, a hand presses gently against your lower back above your thin sweater. It breaks you from your reverie and you look up to meet Billie Dean’s gaze. Her eyes squint slightly as she smiles and her dusty pink lips have never looked so appealing, you think. Your eyes linger a moment too long on the small brown mole in the left corner of her mouth, then the subtle laugh lines there. Others call things like laugh lines and crow's feet imperfections but, to you, they made a person much more attractive. You prefer when you can see evidence of a life truly lived on another person than some fake expensive Hollywood perfection. Billie Dean’s hair was slightly sleep mussed, but nearly the same as you recall it being last night. Soft subtle waves of toffee blonde hair looking like silk you’d love to run through your fingers. Your hand twitches by your side at the thought. Her cheeks are slightly pink with a shy flush and you wonder if it’s because of you or the fire or both. 

Billie Dean raises her mug up in an offer to you. She’s seen you drink coffee enough by now to know that one cup is never enough. Though she wonders why you have the compulsive need to consume so much coffee when you only drink decaf. She didn’t really question it though when she noticed the label on the coffee bag in your pantry. She enjoyed the beverage enough to drink it without the boost of caffeine and, she figured, it would probably come up at some point naturally. 

You thank her with a small smile and take a long sip from her mug. Historically you could never bring yourself to drink after another person, but at the innocent glint reflecting off eyes how could you possibly refuse. The liquid traveling down to your stomach somehow seems so much more delicious accompanied by the knowledge that it came from her mug. That her lips had been exactly where yours are now. You never knew how intimate this common act could be. Maybe that’s why you never did it. That and germs. 

Her fingers of her right hand slide over yours holding the ceramic mug loosely, and you relinquish the coffee to her which she finishes with one sip. She places the mug on the lip of your bookshelf where there was an empty space and looks back at you before stepping closer. A small drip of brown coffee sat undisturbed in the corner of Billie Dean’s mouth and you couldn’t tear your eyes away. So you step forward and raise your cold hand to caress the soft skin of her jaw and use your thumb to brush the liquid away swiftly. If you were to have looked up you would’ve seen the way Billie Dean watched you, like you were the one responsible for hanging the stars in the sky. But you didn’t. Instead you lean forward and capture her full lips in a hesitant kiss. She doesn’t encourage the embrace to lose its chastity, instead allowing you to keep control and find your confidence on your own. You use your thumb to rub back and forth over her cheek as your left hand moves to caress her lower back and pull her closer to you and your chests are pressed together. Billie Dean sighs against your mouth and wraps both her hands around your biceps for stability. The heat from the fireplace warms your skin and sets a calm ambience of crackling wood embers around you. It’s the best morning you’ve had in a long time, you can say for certain. The usually sunny Los Angeles is cold and damp as frost forms around the edges of your windows. Every few seconds the firewood cracks and the air around you is still, save for your unsteady breaths. With Billie Dean holding your arms, your biceps flex naturally and her heart thumps faster at the definition in your muscle under her fingers. This is, you’re sure, the best morning you’ve ever had. 

You move the hand pressed against her lower back to shift under her sweatshirt (your sweatshirt) and caress the skin there. You feel the muscles in her back pull taught at the action and it pleases you to know you elicited that reaction. 

When she pulls away you worry you’ve become too eager before she reconnects her lips to your jaw, and then your neck, and then your pulse point. She sucks gently but firmly and with purpose and you can’t help but let out a whimper. You feel her smile against your skin. You think she’s going to keep going until she claims every inch of your skin as her own until she lets go of your arms to slip hers around your waist and rests her head on your shoulder. You accept this change in pace gracefully and run a hand through her hair, massaging her scalp with your short nails. She sighs contentedly and burrows her nose into your neck and puffs out hot breaths through her nostrils. It’s so achingly tender and domestic it constricts your heart to the point of pain. You hold her close to you and rub up and down her back under her sweatshirt. 

“Is this how you treat all your intruders?” She asks with a sleepily sultry voice. 

“Only the beautiful ones.” You kiss the top of her head and a strand of grey hair sticks to your mouth for a moment before falling back to her head. 

She kisses the hollow of your throat, “Sorry for scaring you earlier.” She says like you’re a shell shocked soldier who came home from war unpredictable and wound up like an unsteady grenade. But you know she means ‘I’m sorry for taking away an aspect of control in an intimate setting in your life in a time where having control is so important to you’. Her breath wafts across your neck and smells like stale coffee and sleep. It’s a domestic combination that makes your head swim. With her cold nose warming itself in the crook of your neck and her arms holding you so tight you can’t think straight, can’t form a sentence now that you wouldn’t regret saying later. 

_‘Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry for throwing you against a wall’_ is what you mean to say. But what you actually say is “I love you.” 

You don’t realize you’ve said it until the body against you stills to the point in which you wonder if she hasn’t just spontaneously turned to stone right in the middle of your living room. And you know it’s a frigid morning but her body runs so cold a shiver runs down your spine like a fresh glacial spring, the hair on the back of your neck standing up straight. 

You pull back to look at Billie Dean and her face is pale and bloodless, ashen. The look in her eyes is a cocktail of anger and...disappointment. You weren’t exactly expecting welcoming arms but this certainly wasn’t the reaction you thought she’d have. Then, in a horrifyingly swift movement, she brings her right hand up and swings it across your face with a resounding _slap_. 

Immediately you stagger backwards and press your hand against your cheek in disbelief. It stung like a bitch and felt hot to the touch, but what’s more is your initial instinctual response was not to defend yourself; rather drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness. This moment reminds you of the many times you were in this same position before your father. As a child when he was hurting you, you’d beg for forgiveness and apologize endlessly. As an adult, which for you meant about eleven years old, you’d say nothing instead and take it wordlessly. It was over faster that way. Since then you lived as a human urn of hatred and rage, bottled up and sealed forever. Now wasn’t any different than after your father would hit you in your mind. You revert back to that mindset, even after all this time. 

You stare at the floor away from her eyes and make yourself small as you back away further. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter quietly with impressive indifference. But there’s a glossy veil of tears unshed in your eyes that gives you away. 

“You better be fucking sorry, Sailor.” She says. But the inflection in her voice is deeper and her words are harsher than you’d ever heard before. Even when she would argue with her agent on the phone over a lost job opportunity.

Your eyes raise to hers in confusion and find someone else behind her irises. Her face could never grow so hard, could it? You say nothing. 

“You think I died so you could come home and play house with some sapphic streetwalker?”

Your eyes scrunch together in confusion before you put it together. _Chief Hunter_. Was it him who hit you? Or was it her action that gave way to the possession. 

“Pussy got your tongue?” He leers with her mouth. Her voice. _Her_ body. 

And what could you possibly say to him, now. After all this. It went unsaid that he should be the one here; alive. Not you. “I’m sorry,” you say lamely. “I’m so sorry. But, please, Billie Dean hasn’t done anything to you. You have to let her go.”

He scoffed and shook his head, “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. Try those guys who’ve been tailing you for weeks.” 

How did he know? Could he feel your suspicions? You knew getting confronted twice in one month couldn’t be a coincidence and you’ve felt you were being followed all the while but ultimately chalked it up to hyper awareness. 

“What do you mean?” 

He laughed. “You’re a smart girl. Did you think your actions would have no consequences?” 

This couldn’t have been about that, could it? That happened overseas. Unless this was in the house. You didn’t want to think about that possibility. 

As you open your mouth to question him further, Billie Dean’s hand presses against her forehead as if she was suffering from a headache and then you see her fall before it happens and lunge forward to catch her in your arms.

“Billie Dean!” You yelp and keep her held upright. She clutched your arms desperately and breathed heavily. You lose ten years of your life every time this happens, you decide. By now you’ve lost at least twenty years, and it was evident by the harsh pounding of your heart against your chest. 

You guide her slowly to the floor and rest her body against your coffee table near the fire. You could see the reflection of the flames in her dark pupils when she finally looked up to you. Her eyes are tired and a little afraid. You’re sure she couldn’t be that consumed by fear, not after hearing stories about some of her travels and interactions with spirits much more intense than now. The Hotel Cortez being one in particular. Though apparently she kissed Aileen Wuornos and they spent the evening in one of the rooms together in the throws of passion. You try not to ruminate too much on that. Billie Dean is looking at you with guilt now and you think maybe that’s what you’d misinterpreted as fear. Immediately you want to cleanse her of the feeling; this wasn’t her fault. Surely she knew that. 

“Billie Dean,” you plead and if it weren’t for the circumstances you’d be embarrassed by how worried you sound. She closes her eyes tightly and drops her head slightly. You brush your fingers through her hair in a manner you hope is soothing. She leans into the gentle caress. You take this as a good sign; she’s being responsive. 

“I need to know you’re okay,” you whisper and push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. You drop your hand to the base of her neck where you rub the skin there back and forth, feeling her goosebumps under your thumb. 

“I’m okay,” she mumbles with a strained voice. Billie Dean was stronger than you, you had no doubt about that. You let out a sigh of relief at hearing her speak. Her hands grab at the material of your sweater in an attempt to pull you closer and you look up to her for permission. She nods her head with a soft, “Please.” You pull her into you and she clutches your back as tight as she can manage with the strength she has left. You hold her close and tight, tight enough to feel every breath she takes. You don’t know how much more of this you can take. You have no control when a spirit harms Billie Dean. You’re helpless. And you know her being here puts her at risk. You will have to find a way to convince her to stay away from you home then, you decide. You won’t put her life in harm’s way again so long as you can help it. And if your Chief was right, if you were being tailed, then her being here was even more dangerous. You tighten your grip slightly more at the thought of having to let her go. Now that you know what Billie Dean looks like in your kitchen, your bedroom, your arms...you don’t know if you can live without it. How will you go on without burnt coffee and toast. Maybe you can sneak her home with your sweatshirt so she’ll always have a reminder of you. You inhale subtly, trying to memorize the faint scent of her shampoo. Something magnolia, lavender, and expensive. You get lost momentarily in the sensation of her silky hair against your skin. And then, you swear, Billie Dean knows exactly what you’re thinking when your grip around her squeezes her impossibly closer. 

“Don’t,” she pleads, and you don’t know what she’s referring to except you know exactly what she’s referring to. Some medium she is, you think to yourself. “Don’t push me away.”

You pull back enough to look her in the eyes and, my goodness, she’s determined. You feel completely naked under her intense gaze. “Whatever it is,” she breathes, “I can handle it. We can handle it - together.” She must’ve heard everything he said through her, then. You lean forward and place a tender kiss on her forehead, staying there longer than necessary. “I’m going to get you some Advil and a glass of water and then I’ll be right back, okay?” She nods in response and accepts that this conversation will have to be had at a later time. 

You make haste, and move through your home as quick as you can manage while wearing slippery socks. When you kneel by her side again, Billie Dean is visibly much calmer than she was before. You hand her the pills and the water and she down it in one long gulp. You pretend to not notice how a droplet of water spills out of her mouth and travels down the long expanse of her tan neck to catch the dip of her collarbone. 

“How are you feeling?” You ask kindly. She places the glass down beside her and places her hand over yours on her knee. “Better,” she says, and you hope it’s true. “But...” she starts and immediately you ready yourself to fulfill any request she may have. “I’d be even better if you kissed me.” Your heart flutters without your permission inside the confines of your chest and you blush. And who are you to deny her? You lean in, not wanting her to exert herself in the slightest, and pull her bottom lip between your teeth and tug gently. She gasps in response and the sound makes your heart skip a beat. God, you love her. Momentarily you wonder if she remembers your confession, and the thought nearly overcomes you completely until a soft “Baby,” comes from her lips. The shear seductiveness of her voice renders you unable to think of anything other than pleasing her. You pull her bottom lip forward with your teeth again and then suck it between your lips and nurture it softly with your tongue. Her hands quickly find purchase tangling themselves in your hair and pulling. You gasp at the sensation and she presses her tongue against the edge of your lips, asking permission. When you open your mouth in response and slip your tongue inside she closes her mouth around it and _sucks_. You wine in surprise and thoughtlessly throw out a hand to brace yourself against her shoulder. Never had you ever, in your twenty years of life, experienced something so...intimate? Arousing? In truth, you never really allowed yourself to get close to anyone let alone someone you were romantically involved with. And ‘romantic’ is a bit of a stretch unless you consider one night stands you sneak away from in the middle of the night romantic. 

Billie Dean’s hand, opposite the one clutching your hair, grasps the back of your neck and somehow holds you closer. Reluctantly, you pull away slightly to catch your breath. You may be in the Navy but your lungs aren’t made of steel. You’re surprised chain smoker Billie Dean Howard has managed to last this long without a full breath. Your forehead falls to rest against hers as you both breathe heavily more or less into each other’s mouths. Her eyes rise to yours and, good heavens, her pupils are blown. It causes your breath to hitch; the thought that you did this to her. Her eyes are practically black save for the small sliver of brown iris around the perimeter. 

“Are you alright?” You ask. And you know Billie Dean is properly annoyed by this if her teasing glare is any indicator, but you have to be sure. 

“Yes,” she breathes with a delicate hand on your chest. “Please kiss me again.” And her tone left no room for misinterpretation. Her fingers pull slightly at your sweater and you think, decidedly, that she’s wearing far too much for your liking. So you grab the hem of her sweatshirt and tug gently by means of asking for permission. She nods her encouragement quickly and more eager than she’d meant to. You lean forward to press a quick peck to her neck before pulling her sweatshirt up and over her head. 

You do not know in what world you could’ve possibly forgotten the fact that she took her bra off last night and neglected to put it back on in the morning, but you did. And when Billie Dean’s breasts lay bare to the cold air around her and the attention of your stare, her small brown nipples perk up and harden. You had to restrain yourself from quite literally diving forward in that moment, ancestral primal instincts begging to take over. So you take a deep measured breath and force your eyes back up to Billie Dean’s slightly amused ones. “Sorry,” you say. “You’re just so beautiful.” A blush rises to her cheeks to color them a bashful pink as she bats her eyelashes. Then, in a move you were rather proud of, you guide Billie Dean to lay on her back against the cold hardwood floor and effectively straddle her waist. Her breath becomes labored and heavier than before, her chest rising and falling quickly. You’re glad to have generated this hot and bothered response from her, but in this moment you want her to feel nothing but calm and protected. She’d been through the emotional ringer this morning and the last thing you want is for her to feel pressured or for this to feel rushed. 

She looks up to you hovering over her, eyes waiting but not expectant. So you lower yourself to rest your weight on your forearms and pull her earlobe between your teeth with a gentle tug, earning a gasp that hits you so suddenly you can’t breathe properly. Begrudgingly you move on, kissing down the slope of her neck, sinking your teeth in ever so softly at the juncture of her jawline. Billie Dean moans, whimpering softly when you smooth over the bite with your tongue. Your right hand trails up the skin of her stomach from her belly button, slowly, to her chest; fingertips pressing light enough to have a presence but not enough to sate any desire. The heat from the fireplace warms your bodies and provides a soft orange glow over Billie Dean; the gloomy LA sky not providing much light itself. 

Before you let your hand caress Billie Dean’s breast, you plead “Tell me what you want.” 

Billie Dean grasps the back of your neck with her right hand and brings you down for a deep kiss, so deep it sends a shiver down your spine at the intensity. “I want you,” she says against your lips and you can hear the meaning behind the words but in this moment all you can think about is giving yourself to her in the literal sense. You kiss her again and bring your hand up to fondle her breast gently and then more firmly when she moans her appreciation. You pull away from her lips and feel her begin to protest until you bring your mouth to suck on her pulse point softly. She keens and arches her back into your body. You hesitantly pinch her nipple between your thumb and forefinger and she whines. Taking the sound to be an encouragement, you do it again a little harder. Her hips fly up in a desperate attempt to find the friction she’s aching for. 

“Honey,” she breathes. She _wants_ you. So completely and fully it strains your heart. Because you were nothing if not head over heels in love with Billie Dean Howard; the woman keening beneath you. Asking for you. You were so in love with her. You think back to the day you met. The understanding in her eyes when you were unable to tell her the things about yourself she needed to hear but already knew. To the hand caressing your thigh whenever the familiar sense of overwhelming began to envelop you whole. To the first time she kissed you and the way your knees shook and nearly buckled. You’ll give her all of you, you decide. And when she leaves you, which she will, you will lose a part of yourself with her that you’ll never get back. But it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make when she says _‘honey’_ and her voice drops an octave from sheer need. You squeeze her breast softly and maneuver your knee to rest against the apex of her thighs. She sighs at the pressure and closes her eyes.

Briefly, you wonder why Billie Dean’s hands remain on your hips, brushing the skin under your sweater lovingly but unmoving. You realize it’s because you haven’t granted her permission to touch you, and you’re thankful for her understanding. You decide you like where they are and like the semblance of control that gives you. 

You kiss her again and then pull back to watch her reaction as you gently rub your knee against her; her eyes squeeze shut again momentarily before she looks up at you. Her gaze is lustful and dreamy, and wanting. A strand of your hair falls from behind your ear and she reaches to brush it back but her movement is too quick and your body reacts before your brain does and you flinch out of instinct. The moment you do it you regret it because the look on her face is so full of guilt it borders on self hatred. With a blink, her eyes grow glossy with unshed tears and you feel terrible for making her feel responsible for something that was out of her control.

“Billie Dean-“ you start, voice gravelly from its period unused. She interrupts you, “No, Y/N. No. I-”

“Shh,” you silence her with your index finger against her lips and she pauses. 

“I’m okay,” you say. “Please. Let me make you feel good.” You smile and gaze at her fondly. And with your hand still pressed against her mouth, presence firm but not commanding, you lean down to press a kiss against a small brown freckle on the slope of her neck. You drag the tip of your tongue across the raised skin and Billie Dean sighs, content. As you tug the skin of her pulse point between your teeth and suck, she briefly considers the bruises that would undoubtedly be spattered across her neck tomorrow and the unprofessionalism that would accompany showing up to an appointment looking like a teen who’d just spent the night in the throws of youthful passion. She quickly decided she didn’t care and could wear a scarf. But while she tried to enjoy your gentle ministrations she couldn’t help but be enveloped by the memory of moments ago. You’d quite literally flinched away from her and that terrified her. Would you always have those reservations about her now? Regardless of your supposed feelings. And what kind of grown woman was she if she was allowing herself to be ruled by her libido in this moment with you. 

You look up to her, sensing her apprehension. You would never do something Billie Dean wasn’t fully comfortable with or consenting to - no matter how much you wanted to hear your name fall from her lips. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you were hypersensitive to rejection. No message no matter how subliminal went unnoticed by you. Every slight change in tone, every bat of an eyelash, every gesture, every involuntary muscle movement; everything. Nothing escaped you. It’s what made you so good at your job but it’s also what haunts you every moment of every day. 

Billie Dean sat up until you straddled her lap and she was right side up. Your hands fall to your side, unsure of where this was heading. Her gaze fell to your arms then rose to your eyes. She brushed her thumb across your lower lip before leaning in to kiss you tenderly and slowly; deeply. The course of this morning had gone nowhere near to plan and the accumulation of events has thrown you for a loop. Your head felt hazy and foggy but Billie Dean’s lips against yours brought you a type of salvation only akin to holiness. 

She pulls back, a thin string of saliva sticks to your lip until it breaks off with increased distance between you. 

“I’m s-” she starts. 

“No. I won’t accept an apology.”

Billie Dean’s stature and gaze is combative but you’re nothing if not stubborn. 

“But-“

“No. It wasn’t you. I know that.” 

This was going nowhere, you decided. Billie Dean was equally stubborn if not somehow more so, and you knew you’d have to revisit this later but for now you were hungry and in need of a shower. You need some time to yourself to think things over without the distraction of Billie Dean’s exposed legs. Or Billie Dean in general. 

“C’mon,” you soothe and stand, reaching your hand out in an offering. She takes it and uses your hand to pull herself up. 

“Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll try to save breakfast?”

A small smirk tugged on her lips, “Are you saying I smell?”

Your mouth mirrors her grin, “I’m saying I don’t want you anywhere near the stove when it’s on.”

Billie Dean gasps theatrically and shoots you a fake glare. “Fine,” she says aloofly and pads off toward your bathroom. Your smile falls when she leaves the room and you let out a heavy sigh. What the actual fuck happened this morning. Above all the things that had occurred what plagued your mind most was your confession of love. Not the fact that you were pretty sure someone was trying to kill you, that Billie Dean got possessed, or that your Chief resents you. You told Billie Dean that you loved her and she hasn’t acknowledged it since she’s been back in herself. Granted you didn’t give her much opportunity but nevertheless. Did she hear you? Was she already possessed when you’d told her? You wouldn’t think something like that would escape a person. Did she think you didn’t mean it romantically? It would’ve been hard to miss. 

What do you do now? Pretend it never happened? Wait with bated breath for her to say something? You could repress anything as good as the next sociopath but you refused to allow yourself to be strung along if you knew she didn’t care for you too. In truth if it weren’t for your feelings for her you would’ve been long gone by now. 

You shake your head as if to clear your thoughts away and head to the kitchen where you throw out the burnt toast and stick two new slices in the toaster. Then you pull out a jar of berry preserves from the fridge and wait for the bread to toast. When the bread pops up, golden brown and slightly crunchy, you grab the pieces and set them on two separate plates before smearing a small portion of preserves on them with a butter knife. Once you’ve refilled your coffees you set the two mugs and plates on the island counter and sit on one of the tall metal stools. At the sound of quiet footprints coming down the hallway, you look up and your breath hitches at the sight before you. Billie Dean Howard in a pair of slim fitting Levis and your dusty pink colored cashmere sweater. It matched her pink nails. She was always a vision but seeing her in your clothing made your throat close up and your palms sweat. She also wore a shy smile that made her chocolate eyes shine beautifully. 

“Hi,” she says as she takes her seat next to you and sips her coffee. You simply smile while continuing to chew your toast. When she takes a bite of her own the crunch of her teeth against the bread makes your heart beat faster. She hums in approval and a bit of jelly gets caught on her lower lip. It’s teasing you and daring you simultaneously and from the look on Billie Dean’s face, she knows it’s there. And she’s daring you too. But you need to keep a clear head so you take a sip of your coffee and look away. You didn’t see the look of disappointment on her face as you went on finishing your breakfast in silence. Billie Dean could practically hear you thinking, over analyzing, doubting. But she chose to stay silent as well, knowing whatever you were contemplating you had to do it on your own.

When you finish your toast, you stand from the counter and walk around to the kitchen to put your cleared off plate in the bottom rack of the dishwasher and your half empty mug to refill. As you pour the warm black coffee into your cup you catch yourself staring too deeply into the drink. You had put the pot back on the heater and were now just looking into your full coffee mug with your hands wrapped around the white porcelain. You hadn’t realized....how long had you been staring. Dissociating more likely. You check the oven clock; only a minute. Curious how it had felt so long. You bring the coffee to your lips and take a long sip, mentally berating yourself for forgetting how hot it would be. You wince and wrap your other hand around the mug now too, basking in the warmth emanating from the beverage; seeping into your skin. You don’t hear Billie Dean come up beside you. Goodness, you need to refocus. 

Her hand trails slowly down your lower spine to rest on the small of your back, just above the waistline of your shorts. Your cotton shirt acts as a barrier between her skin and yours but it doesn’t much help deter the electricity that runs through you at the touch. You sigh and suddenly feel quite underdressed in your shirt and underwear compared to her sweater and jeans. You close your eyes and breathe deeply through your nose at the sensation of her closeness. You were losing your objectivity with her so near and it worried you. 

Billie Dean leans down to place a soft kiss on your shoulder and brushes her nose into your hair. 

“You’re thinking so loud, sweetheart.” She whispers into your ear followed by another brief peck to your skin. 

“Sorry,” you breath. She smiles kindly and you meet her eyes finally. They’re still the same chocolate color you simply cannot get over. She leaves her hand in its place on your back and soothes, “It’s okay. Just tell me what you’re thinking.” 

You set your mug down and maneuver to pull her into your arms in what you would later call a colossal moment of weakness. Billie Dean sucks in a sharp breath in surprise but wraps her arms around your waist tightly nonetheless. Your hands splay over her shoulder blades and the strong muscle of her back as you hold her closely. For a minute you allow yourself to simply hold her against you and revel in the peace you felt in her arms. 

“I think you should go,” you say, nearly against your own will. You think it has to be evident how much you loathe saying this, if only by the strain in your voice. You think she knows this; her fingers instinctively scrunch your thin shirt up tighter in her grasp. 

“Why?” She asks, and though she tries to conceal it you hear the weariness in her tone. That perhaps you don’t want her here because you don’t want her. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. You want to be everywhere she is and nowhere she isn’t. You want her reclining on your couch, spilling coffee and your newspaper, sleeping in your bed and using all the hot water in your shower. You want her all day every day and the thought of being without her makes you nauseous. But above all that, you want her safe. And reality is that most likely means away from you. 

“You’re not safe here,” you whisper, and hold on to her somehow tighter than before.

“Then we’ll go to my place,” she interjects just as quickly. You shake your head slowly and sadly. 

“You’re not safe with **_me_** , Billie Dean.” 

She pulls back enough to look you in the eyes but keeps her arms fastened around your waist securely. “You’re military special forces, Y/N. I couldn’t possibly be safer with anyone else.” 

You level her with a heavy gaze and rub your fingers back and forth over her spine. Your eyes are serious and hers are worried, knowing where this was going. 

“ **Don’t** do this,” she pleads. Her hands squeeze a little too tightly around your midsection and if notices she doesn’t loosen her grip. 

“Billie-“

“Don’t.” 

You pull her back into your embrace because there’s no way you’ll be able to maintain your composure if you look at her face any longer. You hold her against you and she clings the material of your shirt. When she was in the shower you’d changed into a clean white cotton shirt and running shorts. Your arms were warm and she could feel the definition of your strong biceps as you kept her close. They were nothing if not extremely distracting to her.

“I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you,” you whisper and you can feel the tension in her spine grow more taught at your confession...then decompress and settle. Billie Dean knew that staying in your life would be a tremendous feat for you. Would weigh on you heavily and would be a struggle every day. You’d lost too many people, been through too much to allow yourself this kindness; this divulgence. This love. But she was too old, had lived too long to deny herself you. And she wasn’t going to back down now.

“I don’t think I can live without you,” she says and it’s quite possibly the truest and most vulnerable admission she’d ever made. 

When you look back into her dark brown eyes they’re brimming with unshed tears and you can’t possibly believe she’s telling you anything but the truth. Can you? You didn’t think another human being could ever be capable of feeling such a way for you, let alone someone as graceful and god-like as Billie Dean Howard. And even if it were true, heaven forbid, it wouldn’t be the reason you gave in and put her in danger. You thank God then for your stubborn streak because otherwise you’d simply melt into Billie Dean and never leave her side for as long as you live. But, no. You’d rather go through every day with the knowledge that Billie Dean was out there somewhere without you, alive, than be selfish and have something terrible and irreversible happen. 

“I’m sorry,” you say as you walk backwards until your embrace is severed. Her hands fell uselessly to her side and her face looked as though she’d just realized her powerlessness. You pull your Sherpa lined Jean jacket from the coat wrack and pull it over Billie Dean’s shoulders. She stands still in disbelief and acceptance of where tonight was inevitably headed. You grab her keys off the counter and gently place them in her right hand and curl her fingers around them. She looks up to you as you lean forward to kiss her softly and slowly, savoring the feeling as you didn’t know if you would get the opportunity again. You inhale her scent and embed it into your memory to revisit when your loneliness suffocates you. Though her hair smells like your shampoo her distinct scent is strong enough to be noticeable. 

You pull away before you change your mind and guide her to your door. When you move to turn the knob she grabs your wrist. 

“Don’t do this Y/N.” Her gaze is firm and reluctant. 

“I care too much about you, Billie Dean.” 

She scoffs at this which surprises you. 

“Bullshit.” She steps into your space. 

When you say nothing she pulls the door open and shuts it forcefully behind her as she leaves. 

Once there’s a solid barrier between you and her, her shoulders fall and her bravado deflates. She sighs.

“ _I love you,_ ” she whispers; outside and alone in the hallway. It’s not the first time she’s thought it, considered it, cried over it. But it is the first time she’s said it. And now she wonders if it’s going to be her last. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
